The Great Detective
by A Humble Wordsmith
Summary: These are the adventures of the great Sherlock Holmes, as told by his faithful partner Dr. Watson. It all takes place in a world of corruption and greed, where Holmes's need for the truth may put them both in danger... It's a serious story, and it's better than the summary makes it sound. I promise.
1. A Study in FireRed

**All right, ladies and gentlemen. This here is the first chapter of a brainchild of mine. I was flipping through fanfiction the other day, and I thought to myself, "You know, there isn't much legit mystery stuff on this site." And so I tried combining Pokémon and mysteries.**

**This is a spinoff of "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It's set about forty years after N and Black fight their climactic fight in N's Castle. (From the games, so you know). In this fanfic, Black was actually defeated, N's ideals were "proven" correct, and he took over Unova and implemented his beliefs. Pokémon and humans are segregated for the most part, a little like pre-Civil Rights Movement America. Pokémon look down on humans, and the narrator is (at first) no exception. You'll see.**

**Anyway. I recommend you at least get an idea of who the characters of Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, Mycroft Holmes, and Professor Moriarty are in the original Conan Doyle series. It'll help you understand all this. Oh. The chapter titles will all be little puns off the original names of the stories.**

**Enjoy!**

The Great Detective

Chapter 1: A Study in FireRed

_In light of recent events, I have decided to document the events of the last year or so. Was it a year already? It seems like that day was only last week… But my psychologist tells me this is normal. Time seems out of sorts after a disturbing incident like the one I had. I am writing this in the hopes of clearing my head and putting everything right. Mary has been wonderful, of course, but there is only so much she can do….I seem to be going round in circles, don't I? Ah, well. I shall cut to it._

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dr. John H. Watson, a Samurott captain in the recently disbanded 26th Brigade patrolling the moors of Icirrus. The Icirrus Insurrection was a long campaign that brought glory to many of my comrades, but held nothing but disaster for me. I got food poisoning frequently, had the misfortune of stepping into a Ferrothorn nest, and suffered many other hardships besides, but I did my best to push through them all. One day, my orderly, Murray, and I were scouting ahead in some northern corner of the Moors. All was quiet until quite suddenly we were ambushed by a group of Accelgor seeking to keep control of their native land. Utter poppycock, of course—their ideals were completely unfounded, as our King tells us—but I still took a Bullet Seed to the shoulder, fracturing the bone and damaging an important artery. Had it not been for the heroic efforts of my orderly, a Tympole named Murray, I would surely have fallen into the clutches of those murderous rebels. As it was, my shoulder was badly damaged, and I could not continue in combat. I was given a Silver Star, an ambiguous leave from the army, and a small military pension.

The lifestyle change did me good—I felt light as air, indeed—but my rather limited pension prevented me from living comfortably. Castelia City being as crowded as it is, PokéHotels cost quite a lot more than I was able to spend. I was forced to live in less than desirable conditions. I was in dire straits, if you want the truth, and was understandably quite delighted when my old friend Murray the Tympole showed up at my shack for a visit.

"Watson, old chap," he exclaimed, patting my wounded shoulder heartily. "How are you?"

I winced at his touch and pulled away a little. "Good, Murray, good, just… a little sore, eh?"

He beamed and pulled his tail off my wound. "Righto, sorry, sir. If you don't mind me saying, sir, this place is a dump." Murray looked around at my shack with a kind of fascination. It really was a dump, you know. The walls were pieces of scrap metal I salvaged from the Human Quarter, for Arceus's sake. Leaked like the devil, it did.

I grinned a little Mareepishly. "Yes, it is rather." I made an attempt to get Murray's attention off the mold in the corner. "But surely you haven't taken a leave of absence just to criticize my… ahem… temporary abode?"

Another happy look lit his face. "Indeed not, sir; on the contrary, I have come in an attempt to improve it." I looked up in surprise. Murray continued, "Yessir. While walking around Castelia, I noticed a little advertisement on a wall. Apparently, someone's looking for a person to share an apartment with."

He handed over a piece of good-quality paper. The words were neatly written in strong, bold characters. "Hmm…" I mused. "Quiet, studious in habits… Well-appointed apartment…" I took a glance at the mold in the corner. "By Jove, I think I'll do it."

Murray flopped his tadpole body in agreement. "If I may say so, sir, I think you're making a wise decision."

I didn't have anything much to pack, so we set off immediately for the address on the flyer. We arrived at 221B Baker Street, situated on the border of the Northern District and the Human Quarter; on the better side of town, thank goodness. It had a pleasant and neat appearance that took my fancy immediately. We rang the bell. A pleasant red-haired old lady opened the door. "Why, hello, dearies. Are you here about the flat?" She looked confusedly between Murray and I, clearly unsure of whom to address.

"Yes, I am," I responded firmly.

She locked her gaze on me and wreathed her wrinkled face in smiles. "Oh, wonderful, dearie. Mr. Holmes is just upstairs through the door on your left."

I led the way up the stairs. "Holmes," I muttered to myself. "Holmes. If he's a Pokémon at all like his name, he'll be a Forretress or a Shuckle or something. Not too troublesome." I turned to Murray. "Bit unfortunate about the landlady being human, eh?" Murray shrugged. "Ah well. I suppose it can't be helped."

We came to the landing and knocked on the door. A voice responded; a voice strong, youthful, and slightly asthmatic—but an unmistakably human voice. I caught my breath.

_Please, allow me to take a second out of my narrative to explain. I sincerely doubt you would understand this—you live in one world, and I another—but I shall endeavor to make it so that you may understand my feelings. At the time this narrative is taking place, I and the rest of the Pokémon world are heavily prejudiced against humankind. Pokémon and people have been separate for many years, thanks to the efforts of King N; human culture has fallen in the gutter, while Pokémon have earned rights and jobs. It's only fair, after all, since humans held us imprisoned for so many centuries… But I digress. The state of affairs in this world will be further elaborated later in the narrative. I do not want to be redundant, after all._

I steeled myself and opened the door. Human or not, I needed a place to stay. I had come this far, and I wasn't about to let a human put me off.

The apartment was very pleasant. In the middle of the wall opposite the door sat a wide fireplace. Two overstuffed armchairs were pulled up to it; one was clear of debris, while the other was used as a resting place for a violin. A short table, covered in news clippings, was drawn up to the clean chair. A deerstalker cap was hooked on the hatrack, though it seemed new and never-worn. The walls were a plain-patterned wallpaper, free of any pictures or posters. I could see three windows around the apartment, two on the fireplace side, and one on the other.

"I'm over here," the human voice called from an adjoining room over to the left. Murray and I peeked around the corner.

A man stood in what seemed to be a kitchen, hunched over a microscope on the center table. Test tubes surrounded him. The man had his back to us, but he suddenly spoke. "I can tell many things from the way you walk; your passage up the stairs made noise enough for me to hear your footsteps. I heard the even, precise gait characteristic of the armed forces; I can therefore deduce that one of my visitors spent time in the military. Since only Pokémon are permitted in the armed forces nowadays, at least one of my visitors is a Pokémon. This helps to explain the slapping sound I heard accompanying the military visitor; a military Pokémon likely has military Pokémon friends. The slapping sound was therefore probably a legless Pokémon going up the stairs. Is the friend a Magikarp or a Feebas, perhaps? No, the slap was too pronounced… A Tympole, then? A Tympole in the armed forces? Yes, it must be so. The visitor led the way up the stairs, so I will wager he (and I say he because no respectable female Pokémon would voluntarily walk into what is clearly a bachelor's apartment) is the higher-ranked of the two. Probably a captain, though it's hard to say for sure… The two were talking, though, in a friendly way, so they are probably comrades in the same division or squad." He said this all rather quickly and turned around. A small smile flashed across his narrow face and he stuck out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes. A pleasure to meet you, doctor. I'm sorry about your wound; the Moors of Icirrus are a dangerous place."

Murray and I could only gape rudely. This man knew who we were just from the way we walked! Remarkable, truly. I swallowed and extended my own paw. "Dr. John Watson, ex-captain in His Majesty's Royal Marines. But how—"

"How did I know about your being a doctor? Simple. Your eye has that glint to it that shows you know pain and suffering, and are not afraid of them. Few occupations give such experience. I narrowed you down to a psychiatrist or a doctor. When you took my pulse just now, I knew you to be a doctor for certain. Your being in the Moors? I have identified you as being both a military man and a doctor; therefore, you are very likely an army doctor. The Empire's soldiers are only fighting in the Icirrus Moors at the moment. This is the only place where they would need an army doctor, and therefore the only place you could have received your wound."

Murray still seemed agog, but I stiffened my resolve and swallowed. Honestly, the nerve of that arrogant human! His little parlor-tricks were very impressive, to be sure, but he was so… blasé to just casually spout a man's story. I wasn't about to let a mere human dazzle me. "Very nice. But I believe you mentioned something about a room?" I allowed myself a quick surge of victory as the human's face dropped. Clearly he was waiting to see me astonished, and he must've been disappointed that his little game hadn't worked.

He responded nonetheless. "Yes, yes. Rates here are fairly low, and the housekeeper's a good person. I'm mostly studious, usually in the lab"-here he gestured around at the kitchen-"although I do play the violin from time to time. Would that bother you?"

I considered. "A badly-played one, yes; but a well-played violin is a treat for the gods."

Another quick smile appeared. "Good. We shall have no problems, then. Unless, of course, you object to rooming with a human?"

I got the feeling that he was jesting, but I could not say at what. Pokemon and people were technically equals, after all, but there were "Human Water Fountains" and "Pokémon Water Fountains"; the better parts of restaurants were reserved for Pokémon; humans had to play in alternate sports leagues than Pokémon… I'm sure any Pokémon would've have objections to sharing a flat with a human.

But that didn't seem to be what the arrogant human was asking. He asked not based off how society felt, but how I personally felt. Now, to tell you the truth, I've always considered humans as equals—or tried to, at least. I've hated the stereotypes against them, but I sometimes find myself biased anyway. Anti-human jokes are hilarious, in my defense.

I wasn't sure how I felt about this human, either. This Holmes character seemed like a rather rude fellow, though I could sense a will to do good in him… Ah well. I needed a place to live, and if he ever irritated me too much, I could always give him a Razor Shell to the face and leave.

I smiled and stretched out a paw. "It's a deal."

* * *

Two weeks passed. I spent my time reading and acclimating my wounded shoulder. In my spare hours, I took a shot at understanding my enigmatic flatmate. Holmes was an odd duck, to say the least. He would sit in his lab and work on Arceus-knows-what for days, then suddenly start pacing the kitchen. Some days his eyes would shine with an almost terrifying gleam, and an inhuman strength and drive would possess him. On these days he would pace, he would shadowbox, he would play massively complicated music on his violin. Other days, Holmes would be lethargic and depressed, playing slow and confused music and idly stabbing the wall with a knife. Once, on one of his lethargic days, I caught him sipping Dream Mist out of a hookah. Revolting, certainly, but Holmes's defense was that it stimulated his mind. I destroyed the hookah and his supply of Mist, of course.

I made a little chart in an effort to figure him out. Here's a copy, if you're interested:

Sherlock Holmes

1. Knowledge of literature: none

Reasoning behind statement: I quoted Charles Ekans' The Prince and the Pupitar, confusing Holmes and killing conversation immediately

2. Knowledge of astronomy: none

Reasoning: I attempted debate with Holmes on Galileo Galvantula's early beliefs on the heliocentric universe. Holmes surprised to hear Earth went around Sun.

3. Knowledge of philosophy: none

Reasoning: I brought up human ideas on self-existencialism. Holmes appeared bored and began playing violin in the middle of my arguments

4. Knowledge of politics: feeble

Reasoning: Holmes unable to name King's cabinet, but knew of all city mayors attached to scandals

5. Knowledge of botany: erratic

Reasoning: Holmes frequently forgets the names of daisies outside window, yet recites names and properties of various poisonous plants and their extracts

6. Knowledge of geology: practical

Reasoning: Holmes points at my pant legs and can tell where I'd been walking from mud stains on my legs

7. Knowledge of chemistry: profound

Reasoning: Holmes talks on and on about reactions and blood for hours if allowed

8. Knowledge of anatomy: accurate

Reasoning: Holmes recognizes vital organs in Pokémon and people, able to make intelligent conversation about body mechanisms

9. Knowledge of Pokémon: immense

Reasoning: Holmes able to recite any Pokémon's feeding habits, general personality traits, movepools, typing, natures and their effects, footprints… Truly encyclopedic.

10. Plays violin well, though erratically

Reasoning: Seems to play music based off erratic moods, but plays W. A. Floatzel concerti upon request

11. Expert boxer, swordsman

Reasoning: He and I spar lightly from time to time, and Holmes able to hold his own fairly well. Of course, I have an injury, so that evens the odds.

12. Many friends

Reasoning: Holmes receives visitors of all walks of life in the sitting-room at any hour. I am frequently shunted out of the room—though apologies are given—to give Holmes and visitors alone time.

I looked over my list and chuckled. My flatmate could be truly anyone.

Holmes walked in from his room one day as I was finishing my list. He seemed sleepy and dreary-eyed, though it was almost noon. "Morning," I grunted.

He ran a hand through his hair. "What's for breakfast?"

I shrugged. "It's almost lunchtime, actually, but I think there's some sardines—"

"Boring." Holmes interrupted me, changed directions, and grabbed his violin from off his chair. When I tried to keep talking, he played a series of jarring chords. I shut my mouth and took up my pen.

13. Incredibly rude and arrogant.

Holmes arched a lazy eyebrow at my paper over his violin. The phone rang, and seeing Holmes to be disinclined to pick up, I got up and answered.

The voice on the telephone was curt and official. "This is Scotland Yard. Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes there?"

I blinked. Scotland Yard? The inappropriately-named elite of the police force? I turned to look at Holmes. He didn't seem much of the criminal type. He was just sitting there… in my chair… reading my analysis of his personality…

I reddened and cleared my throat. "Er-hem… Holmes? Scotland Yard would like a word with you."

"Tell them I'm busy." He didn't look up from my analysis.

"Er, Holmes… This is Scotland Yard. The police force? You can't just—oh, give me that." I strode across the room and snatched my paper. Holmes chuckled and took the phone.

"Yes, this is he. How are you, Lestrade?… Fine, fine, brilliant as ever… I assume by your tone this is not a social call?… Oh, really? I might come. Keep everything ready in case I do." He turned off the phone.

My face was still a deep red; I hoped Holmes couldn't see under all my fur. I cleared my throat again, fiddling with my list. "Deucedly sorry, Holmes," I muttered. "Terribly rude of me to make something like this… And about a fellow flatmate, to boot…"

My companion waved away my apologies. "No, Watson, no. It is quite natural to be mesmerized by me. I completely understand."

My embarrassment receded to a kind of wonder at Holmes's narcissism. Holmes continued, "I gather from your feeble attempts at analysis you are completely in the dark as to who I am. Since I already know almost everything about you, this doesn't seem quite fair. I should like to enlighten you, good doctor. That call I just received was a summons from Scotland Yard. Care to accompany me? All will be explained."

I did not know whether to laugh at this silly human's overblown opinion of himself or to be annoyed at his constant slights at my own intelligence. I resolved to find out more about him before passing judgement.

* * *

Fog hung over Castelia like a shroud, enveloping everything in its damp embrace and suppressing all sound. I was quite glad to be in the cheery taxi instead of on the streets. I turned expectantly to Holmes in the seat next to me, awaiting an explanation. He seemed to have no inclination to give one, however, so we sat in an awkward silence for a while. Finally, I cleared my throat. "So, Holmes… Who are you?"

He remained turned away from me, staring into the drizzle. "Who do you think I am?"

When I could not respond, he barked, "Come, come, Watson. Use what's left of your brain. I have very erratic knowledge, as you have noted on that paper. I am visited by all sorts of people and Pokémon. I receive summonses from Scotland Yard. Who can I be?"

I considered this. "A…bank robber?" It was an absurd suggestion meant to insult—for I hate guessing games—but my flatmate just gave a quick chuckle.

"Close, Watson, very close. But no." He straightened his back and puffed out his chest, finally looking at me. "I am a consulting detective. The world's first and foremost, in fact." I arched an eyebrow. He sighed, and his chest deflated a little. "Consulting detectives are _consulted_" -he put some emphasis here—"by people to solve mysteries only _detectives_" – more emphasis—"can solve." He spoke as one would to a small and stupid human child. "Even Scotland Yard has trouble from time to time. On those occasions, they call me in."

It sounded silly, but I had witnessed firsthand Holmes's deductive abilities... "Seems rather quixotic."

He nodded grimly. "Quixotic it may be, but the money keeps me alive…" We watched a family of humans huddled on the sidewalk in blankets. He scowled. "It's hard to find work when you Pokémon steal all the jobs."

I felt my face get hot and my paw clenched at one of my shell swords. "Now, you listen here. Humans have trapped Pokémon in tiny prisons for centuries. King N's saving us means we can have lives and jobs! Is it our fault we can do them better than you humans?"

I stared into Holmes's cold, calculating eyes, furious. Those eyes blinked back, analyzing, reading my thoughts… yet there seemed something beyond the grey. Grief? Disappointment? Whatever it was, it was gone in a moment, and I wondered if I had imagined it. He spoke, and his voice was as cold as his eyes. "No. It is not your fault you can succeed better than humans." He turned away to the window again, but I could still feel his eyes somehow. "It is your fault if you cannot spare a thought for us, though. Humans may have treated Pokémon badly, but is that an excuse for treating us badly now? Does that change anything? Does that somehow justify keeping my people down, to keep this circle of enmity going?"

I had no answer, and the rest of the trip passed in silence. Finally, a small worn-down one-story at the address given loomed out of the fog. I paid the cabbie and he drove off, leaving us to walk the short distance to the police tape cordoning off the area. A Stoutland with badges on his shoulders and an officer's cap trotted up and greeted us. "Mr. Holmes, thank you for agreeing to come out here on such a grey day. This case has us absolutely baffled." He noticed me and frowned. "Who's the Samurott?"

"Ah, this is Dr. Watson, ex-captain in the Marines. He will be… assisting me here." Holmes did not look at me.

The Stoutland nodded and offered me a paw, all smiles. "A pleasure, I'm sure, sir. Any friend of Sherlock's is a friend of mine!" He made an attempt at a chuckle.

"Don't call me Sherlock, Lestrade. Only my brother calls me that." Holmes brushed past Lestrade contemptuously and doubled over, examining the mud walkway up to the building. The Stoutland seemed hurt, but he watched my flatmate with excited eyes.

I approached Lestrade. "Holmes has a brother?"

Lestrade kept watching Holmes. "Yessir, he does. Never met him, though. Lucky blighter, whoever he is. I'd love to be related to Holmes. D'you know, I've been trying to get Sherlock to talk with me for over a year now?" He turned his eyes, pitiably hopeful, toward me. "Does he talk about me at all? No? Oh…" We watched Holmes get down on all fours and inspect a bush intently.

I twisted my moustache. "Why? Why do you want him to like you?" It seemed odd, really; Pokémon were better than humans in every conceivable way. Holmes was a pain to be around, anyway. Why would one of us go to such lengths for the acknowledgement of one of them?

Lestrade turned his big eyes towards me. "Dr. Watson, I admire Sherlock Holmes more than I do any other mortal, living or dead. I have watched that man perform miracles. I have watched him solve cases from dirt he found at the scene. I have watched him crack codes that eluded leading Alakazam cryptographers. I have watched him break down hardened criminals in the interrogation room after a few minutes. I have watched him bring down drug trafficking rings single-handed. I have watched him save my career twice now, and both times he acted like it was nothing. I have watched him work miracles, Dr. Watson. This man… This example of a specie we degrade and diminish is the closest thing to a god I know. If you knew Arceus, doctor, would you not also desire his friendship?" He stared at me as I considered this. Sherlock Holmes, a hero? Nonsense! He was just a human…

We watched Holmes as he walked slowly across the muddy path, his nose inches from the ground. Even at my distance, I could tell he was energized and excited; his head whipped from point of interest to point of interest, like a Noctowl's. Holmes scrutinized the ground for another fifteen minutes. I did my best to make smalltalk with Lestrade after his awkward monologue, but he clammed up and responded in brief, monosyllabic sentences. I discovered he was the chief of Scotland Yard, but that was the extent of it.

Holmes strode over to where we stood, mercifully putting an end to the silence. "I have seen everything." He gestured grandiosely. "Show me the scene of the crime." His eyes were bright, and he seemed to have forgotten our squabble in the cab. "The pheasant is running, Watson," he muttered as we walked.

I gave him a look. "The pheasant—what?"

He shrugged a little defensively. "The pheasant is running. It's something of a catchphrase."

"Ah." I nodded. "Right. Change it. Doctor's orders."

We were at the door to the house now, and Holmes paused a minute to inspect the lock on the door. Lestrade noticed this. "Door was unforced, Mr. Holmes. The deceased probably let the killer in."

Holmes mumbled something unintelligible and we moved on into some sort of a sitting room. It smelled revoltingly of rotting meat, I have to mention. An old man dressed entirely in green lay sprawled on the floor, the back of his head an ugly soup of blood and brain. I scrutinized the unfortunate man without touching him. "See how the blow is more toward the right side of the skull? Struck in the back of the head by a right-handed man with a blunt object, I'd say. Dead about 8-12 hours."

Holmes gave me an impatient look. "Watson, be a good chap and stop telling me things I already know. Be quiet, if you have nothing of importance to say."

I reddened, but refrained from insulting him in kind. If I noticed anything, I would certainly keep it to myself.

Holmes proceeded to inspect the room, though in lesser detail than he had the road. He stooped and picked up some bright green leaves blown into the corner. I watched him pause to examine the furniture. "Mahogany. This man had good taste," my flatmate remarked, running a hand over the overturned stool and table.

I stared. A man had been brutally murdered, and here Holmes was, appraising the deceased's furniture! Humans really were despicable sometimes!

Evidently Lestrade felt the same way, for he cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Excuse me, Mr. Holmes—and please don't think I'm trying to tell you what to do—but there's something on the opposite wall you might want to take a look at." I stared at Lestrade too. Here was a Pokémon kowtowing to a human! What had the world come to?

Holmes stepped over the prone corpse on the floor and to the other side of the room. Above the fireplace was scratched a single word: BLACK. Holmes studied this for a while and shrugged it off. "Possibly a motive, possibly a red herring, definitely not made by the deceased. Either way, I try not to involve myself with the melodramatic clues. It's usually the seemingly unimportant ones that are useful." He turned to Lestrade, who seemed hurt again. "Well, Lestrade, I thank you for bringing me in on this case. It has been a most interesting walk."

Lestrade seemed disappointed as well. "But… what have you found? Is it the work of a madman?"

Holmes laughed humorlessly. "No rush, Lestrade. You know I never like to share until I am absolutely sure. Come along, Watson."

He strode out. I looked at Lestrade, who sighed and studied the body. I muttered a quick goodbye and followed my companion.

Once in the taxi, I tried to pump Holmes for what he found out about the crime. He acted surprised at my queries. "Well, surely you know! We observed the same crime scene, did we not? You looked at the same things I did, did you not? I even called your attention to some of the things I found interesting."

I snorted. "What, the furniture? The leaves? The bushes?"

He nodded earnestly. "Yes, they all are relevant here. Think for yourself, Watson." He turned to look out the window.

I reflected. "All right," I began. "Here's how I see it." Holmes nodded and smiled in an encouraging manner. "The old man was sitting in his mahogany chair, meditating, or whatever you humans do in mahogany chairs. Anther man comes by, up the mud path, and is interested in the bushes. Maybe he's a botanist, I don't know. Eventually, the visitor goes up and knocks on the door to the building. The door wasn't forced, right? So the murdered man must've known the visitor and let him in. The older man and the visitor quarrel, perhaps, and the visitor kills the older man in a fit of rage. Some of the leaves from the bushes had caught in the visitor's clothes, and they're left behind at the crime scene." I sat back and surveyed Holmes with pride.

He nodded. "Interesting, Watson, interesting. Your theory about the bushes is very imaginative. But how do you explain the name on the wall?"

"You said yourself it could be a red herring, right? Well, the visitor, seeing what he had done, probably sought to foist the crime on someone else. Black is probably the surname of one of the murderer's enemies."

Holmes laughed. "I must say, your deductions are fascinating, though completely incorrect."

I stiffened, a little miffed. "Incorrect? I thought they were pretty solid, myself. Do you have any reasoning behind your putting down my ideas?"

"Plenty, my friend." I mumbled a request not to call me that, but he continued as if he hadn't heard. "Firstly, what makes you so sure the killer was a man?"

I frowned. "Well, surely a woman wouldn't murder an old man so brutally?"

Holmes waved this aside. "No, no. I'll rephrase the question in a way you'll understand. Why do you think the attacker was human?"

I recoiled. This was nonsense! "Holmes! What are you saying? Pokémon—Pokémon do not stoop to killing in cold blood! Only a human would be so heineous!"

Holmes' eyes hardened suddenly, and again I saw a flash of disappointment deep inside. When he spoke, his voice was deathly quiet, devoid of all emotion.

"Oh?"

A single syllable, yet uttered with such a frosty power underneath that I could not help but look away and shiver. I could not breathe until I felt those eyes averted out the rain-splattered window. The rest of the ride passed in a chilled silence that had nothing to do with the weather.

* * *

In the days that followed, Holmes seemed completely disinterested in Lestrade's case. He would do nothing but play his violin and observe microorganisms all day, leaving the flat from time to time. I longed to ask his opinions on the mystery, but I had an uneasy feeling that I had crossed some line during the cab ride back to the flat. When I refused to believe a Pokémon could commit murder, Holmes seemed… deadly. Not lethargic, not lost in a stupor, not enthusiastic, not energetic. This was a facet to Holmes I had never seen, and it terrified me, to tell you the truth. But, really! A Pokémon would never kill anyone. We are generally peaceful, and even when aroused only knock out or incapacitate enemies. Humans, on the other hand… Humans are highly prone to killing and pain. Always were. Always waging stupid wars, always refusing members of their own kind basic necessities, always imprisoning each other, always enslaving Pokémon, and murder. Cold-blooded murder. Humans solved their petty squabbles with it, or so I learned in my Human Studies class as a little tyke. Humans even entertained themselves with murder in books or movies! Disgusting. They are far more capable than Pokémon to end a life.

And yet Sherlock Holmes didn't think so. Of course, that could just be bias on his part, but that icy look he gave me was one used by the just, by the knowledgeable, by those who knew indisputably that they were correct… Or at least believed themselves to be. I have seen the look before on my old commanding officer back at the Moors, when he needed us to trust his judgment. He was never wrong when he had that look.

I sighed and scratched my head. It was no use fathoming the thoughts of my flatmate. His was a mind either incredibly deep—the mind of a genius—or incredibly shattered, like a madman's.

My shoulder had been twinging rather a lot lately, so I decided to forgo my daily walk and browsed the Castelia Gazette instead. I muttered as I read the headlines, a habit I'd picked up in boot camp. "King visits Pokémon orphanage… New Bark Knicks claim 27th career title…" I stopped dead. I read an article, reread it, and shouted, "Holmes! Holmes!"

He hurried into the sitting room from the lab. "What is it? What's wrong?"

I pointed a paw at the article that had caught my attention and mopped my brow while Holmes read. My Arceus… Six other old men, dressed monochromatically, found dead in their respective abodes… Each time, the word BLACK scratched at the scene… Some of them were dead of blunt trauma, others of thousands of tiny but deep cuts, and one—Augustus Rood—with a massive cut down his chest… The similarities between these cases and the case Lestrade called us in on were too obvious to ignore.

Holmes looked up from the newspaper, his eyes deadened with inner pain. "I… I could have stopped this," he muttered. He turned to me with a stronger voice. "I could have stopped this, Watson. I have known the murderer from the start, but I let him walk. I thought he would stop after the first, that his reasons were pure and just. I was wrong." He choked out this last bit, as if saying it was a pain he was not accustomed to.

I tried to soothe him. "Now, now, let's not overreact. Yes, this was a bit of a shock, but you can't let it upset you. I doubt you—"

"Shut up, Watson." He cut me off crisply. A steely glint appeared in his eyes, one I had never seen before. "Get Lestrade on the line. Tell him to be here in fifteen minutes. I shall return shortly." He strode to the door, flung it open, and marched down the stairs.

* * *

Holmes, Lestrade, and I were seated in the sitting room. The atmosphere was tightly charged. Lestrade and I stared intently at Holmes, who gazed into the depths of the unlit hearth.

"I was a fool, gentlemen." Holmes didn't seem comfortable with these words, but he spat them out nonetheless. "A fool even bigger than you, Watson." I passed over the slight. They came so frequently I had ceased to care. "From the moment I saw the crime scene, I knew the general identity of the culprit. I should have revealed it then and there, but I felt he had acted from pure motives, and—I hate saying this—I did not want to be bothered with it."

Lestrade leaned in. "Mr. Holmes, if you don't mind my asking, why did you think this?"

Holmes waved an impatient hand. "I will get to that, Lestrade. Don't interrupt me, please. As I was saying… I did not want to be bothered with the crime. I thought it beneath my notice. But he has killed again, gentlemen. Seven times, to be exact. No amount of justification can excuse this. He shall be caught and tried, as is the due process of the law."

He remained silent for a while. Lestrade ventured forth another question: "But, Mr. Holmes, sir, begging your pardon, but how could you know the murderer? We all saw what you saw, and yet—"

Holmes cut him off. "Lestrade, you and Watson are alike in that you look, but do not see. If you saw a chair, you would say, 'It's a chair. A rather nice one, in fact.' If I saw a chair, I would be able to approximate the owner's height, weight, occupation, and any number of things besides. Where you saw a muddy road leading up to the crime scene, I saw a road lined up and down with long, undulating snake-like tracks. Where you saw an unforced door, I saw a Pokémon with dexterity enough to pick a reasonably complicated lock. Where you saw a head caved in, I saw a tool or appendage used by a Pokémon with enough strength to kill a man. Where you saw a selection of nice furniture, I saw an unusually expensively furnished living room. Where you saw a bunch of random leaves piled in a corner, I saw pieces of the attacker torn off in a struggle."

I broke in, still miffed. "Holmes, why are you so convinced the attacker is a Pokémon?"

He gave me a sharp look. "Why are you so convinced he isn't? Look at our evidence. First: serpentine tracks. I know of no human able to make a serpentine trail. Second: the bushes. When I called your attention to the bushes, I wanted you to look at the mud in and around a particular bush that was disturbed. The murderer hid there, we can safely say. Clearly, the assailant was probably lying in wait for nightfall. The door was locked, so the murderer was forced to pick it. Not all Pokémon are that agile or dexterous with their limbs. The leaves in the corner indicate a Grass-type Pokémon; this would correspond with the door; no doubt Vine Whips would have been sufficient to move the tumblers in the lock. Finally, the blow to the back of the head was probably from the assailant's tail.

"What do we have, then? A serpentine Grass-type Pokémon with the ability to produce vines and the strength to crush a human skull in a single blow. Namely,-"

A knock came from the door. "Mr. Holmes?" It was Mrs. Hudson. "A gentleman to see you. From some landscaping service, apparently."

Holmes looked at Lestrade and me with a finger at his lips. He pointed to places on either side of the door and mimed grabbing something. We nodded and took the positions indicated. Holmes cleared his throat. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson, send him in."

The door opened and a middle-aged, mild-looking Serperior slithered in. He gave Holmes an easy smile. "'Ello, guv'nor. You want a tree in, or what?"

Holmes shouted, "Now!" and Lestrade and I lunged for the visitor. The Serperior's face contorted into a mask of rage, and he tied up the Chief Inspector with a powerful Wrap. Lestrade's eyes began to bulge, but I Megahorned the Serperior at the base of the skull. He collapsed immediately, unconscious, and Lestrade extricated himself from the coils.

Holmes approached from where he had stood during the fight as Lestrade cuffed the assailant. "You didn't kill him, did you, Watson? No, no, good. He's coming round. Of course, finding the murderer was simplicity itself, as Serperior are rare in the city and this one took no pains to conceal his identity. I walked into his landscaping company and requested a tree to be delivered by this particular individual." Holmes kneeled down to be face-to-face with the now-conscious Serperior. He asked a single word: "Why?"

The grass snake said nothing, only eyeing Holmes sullenly. He suddenly broke into speech. "Awright. I'll tell ya. I'm not ashamed of what I done." His accent and poor grammar dropped suddenly. "It started many years ago, before any of you were born, before N came to power, back when Pokémon and humans were still partners. I was just a young Snivy owned by a kindly professor, a part of her research into the origins of Pokémon. There were three young human kids who lived in the town I did, and for one of their birthdays, I was given to the young man by the name of Hilbert Black. My friend Oshy—an Oshawott—and Tepper—a Tepig—were given to the other two. We set off on an adventure, a traditional coming-of-age quest to see the world. Hilbert and I bonded quickly. I discovered he hated his name (perhaps with good reason) so I took to calling him Black. Black was a peaceable sort; he disliked Pokémon battles, and at first only fought other trainers when he had to. I loved it, though. All the Pokémon did back then. Once Black overcame his fear of hurting me, we became a great team.

"As we journeyed, we discovered the existence of a radical group by the name of Team Plasma. Their leader, Ghetsis, said Pokémon were nothing but slaves to the whims of their trainers. I loved Black dearly by then, and we both knew Ghetsis's words to be untrue. We fought Ghetsis and his Team Plasma goons at every turn, often aided by strong trainers called Gym Leaders and the kids from our hometown. Black met a girl, Hilda White, who decided to travel with us and provide support.

"Time passed, we trained, Black caught other Pokémon… One day, we discovered Team Plasma's true plot: they planned to use the legendary Pokémon Zekrom's immense power to force trainers to release their Pokémon. Resisting Trainers would be killed.

"Well, none of us wanted that, so we (and by 'we' I mean Black, Hilda, the Gym Leaders, and Black's friends) started rushing around Unova, trying to find the stone to control Zekrom's counterpart, Reshiram. We did, finally, just in time for Team Plasma's _coup-de-tat_. A massive fortress rose up around the Pokémon League—the seat of power at that time—and Plasma grunts invaded. Black and I beat them back, of course, but Hilda was injured in the scuffles and had to remain behind while the rest of us went on into the castle.

"Fighting was brutal, room-to-room close combat. Many of our allied Pokémon were knocked out, but we finally pushed through to the topmost floor. We were attacked by the Seven Sages of Team Plasma, a group of 'intellectuals' who dressed monochromatically and carried one type of Pokémon. The Gym Leaders held them off to allow Black to get through.

"The final room we entered was beautiful, all marble columns and pools of water. There we found N, the figurehead leader of Team Plasma. N was at that time a pure but misguided youth who genuinely believed Pokémon were worse off with humans. He was really controlled by Ghetsis, but N was the one with Zekrom, so we challenged him to a battle for all the marbles.

"It was intense. At the end of it, we came out victorious, but only Reshiram and I remained conscious out of Black's team. Even as N acknowledged our superiority and prepared to call off the assault, Ghetsis appeared and challenged Black to a battle, knowing full well in what condition his team was in. The Pokémon of Truth was knocked out by Ghetsis's Hydreigon. Though I fought my hardest, I too was defeated soon after.

"I could only watch, then, as Ghetsis approached my beloved trainer and ordered his Bisharp to kill. I could only watch as Black's head plopped into the beautiful pool in the room.

"The rest was a blur. N, not having seen the fate of Black, believed Ghetsis's lie that Hilbert had fled. After N went to go sit on his throne, my Pokéball was crushed and I was ordered to leave. Weak, confused, and grief-stricken, I had no choice but to comply.

"The Gym Leaders were all executed, of course, because they continued to resist Team Plasma after they took power. Their killings were filmed and aired on national television to scare any others who had thoughts about keeping their Pokémon.

"Years passed. Pokémon gained the same rights as people, and human rights began to degrade. Employers preferred employees with abilities and vines and super strength than regular humans, so Pokémon got all the jobs. Any self-run human business was burned down or run out of town by undercover Plasma agents.

"N became King of Unova, and Ghetsis his trusted advisor. I wanted revenge for what they did to Black, but Ghetsis is always under heavy government protection, I settled for the Seven Sages. They had retired long ago, and lived quiet lives in different cities. They were the closest to Ghetsis I could come…"

The Serperior trailed off. The three of us stared at him for a few seconds. Holmes murmured, "I thought that old man had done something wrong, got himself involved in something illicit. Not many humans can afford mahogany furniture."

Lestrade got up. "Utter hogwash, of course," he scoffed. Holmes arched an eyebrow at him, but Lestrade continued on: "Our King is a peaceful and just man. Even the thought of such a violent takeover would revolt him. As for your trainer…" Lestrade's eyes became pitying, "I can't even imagine the tortures he must have put you through to make you believe these fallacies. I've complete confidence they'll let you off with a plea of insanity. Come along, then."

Lestrade began to lead the Serperior away. The serpent's long body writhed, but he could not break free of the restraining cuffs. He looked back at us. "Please—please, they'll kill me! Ghetsis won't let me live… But I don't care about that! All I want is someone to believe me, to remember past wrongs when I am gone!" His eyes, large and yellow windows to a tormented soul, met mine. We shared a glance for a moment, and I looked away. Holmes held his gaze, however, and just as Lestrade was about to close the door, my flatmate gave an almost imperceptible nod.

* * *

Holmes played his violin for hours that night. I sat in the sitting room with him as he played, and we turned our thoughts inward. His music seemed to reflect his musings, as it flowed freely from dark and intense accents to twittering melodies high up.

My thoughts ran in a manner like his. In an effort to straighten myself out, I asked myself questions, as was my habit in times of trouble.

_Did I believe the Serperior?_ I asked.

On the one side stood my life's teachings. "N is good," they said to me. "N is the best of his kind. He is modest, kind, and just. Humans willingly followed him and released their Pokémon."

On the other was this outrageous tale from the Serperior. He was a murderer, unsettled in the head, but a living remnant of a bygone era. A possible lunatic saying Pokémon and people were meant to be together, that N took power violently, that there was a man behind him who really held the reins.

Holmes interrupted my train of thought. "Watson?"

"Hmm?"

"Watson, what do you plan to do?" Holmes had stopped playing, and now looked me straight in the eye. "You've had your first taste of what I do. While most of my cases aren't this… controversial, they are often dangerous, and I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to step out. I'd love to have your company, though."

I held his gaze steadily, remembering the way he nodded to the Serperior and wondering if he believed the story. I stood up and extended a paw. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

* * *

In the paper the next day was a small column about the death of the murderer Serperior, who perished in a small accidental fire in his cell a few hours after being brought in. No other injuries were reported.

**And there we have it. I know, it's long, but I'm sure you could do with the reading. I hope you guys got the little puns I threw in with famous peoples' names. The only one that was not hilarious and was actually confusing was "W.A. Floatzel". Sorry. That's a spinoff of "Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart", the classical music composer.**

**So you know: there are more chapters- quite a few more- and they will come on a hopefully weekly basis. Nothing you do can stop them. Hah. At any rate, please support the Pokémon franchise and read the original Sherlock Holmes short stories! They're fun! Or just watch the old black-and-white Sherlock Holmes movies with Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce. Or just watch "Sherlock" on the BBC.**

**I really hope you enjoyed the story. If there's any mistakes you can see, or any positive criticism you can give, or anything at all, you type that review thing down there, ok? I really need the critiques, and I'll try to respond to comments or questions via next chapter or PM.**

**All right. Until next week then, hopefully. Stay strong.**

**-Wordsmith **


	2. A Scandal in Castelia

**Hello again, guys. We're back with another chapter, and this one's shorter! Nice! Anyway. I have a bit of housekeeping sort of thing to do before we plunge into it. First off, thanks a lot to LeafGreenShippyXD, ShyKneeStardust, and the enigmatic Guest. I really can't thank you guys enough; reviews mean a lot to me.** **Also a thank-you to Kyogreperson, who was an invaluable idea-bouncing wall in the brainstorming.**

**Alright. Now that that's out of the way. I need to make a quick little aside here: I am not one of those writers who talk to their characters in the Author's Note thing. I find it really weird, and it just makes the writer seem like they have a multiple-personality disorder.**

**I've talked long enough.**

Chapter 2: A Scandal in Castelia

It was a slow day in the flat. No rain fell, no fog blew, no sun shone, no nothing. It was cloudy and murky, the kind of day I found indecisive and stagnant. I would have liked to go outside for my daily walk, but it threatened rain. That's not to say that I mind rain terribly much. I don't. It's just hiking through Castelia in the middle of a storm would invoke memories of a particularly unfortunate occasion in the Moors, a memory I preferred to keep buried.

The whole thing would have been bearable if it actually was raining. Then I could keep warm and snug and read the Castelia Gazette and make one-sided conversation to Holmes on politics. It wasn't raining, though, which meant there was a chance of the weather clearing up, and I could actually go walking. I didn't get too involved in my reading, then, since the last thing I wanted was to be caught up in the paper and look up to find that a beautiful day had passed. I hated those feelings worst of all.

And so I sat, perched uncomfortably on the edge of my armchair, idly turning through the Gazette and keeping an eye on the ambivalent grey sky outside.

Holmes walked in while I was perching. "Ah. Watson. There you are. I say, why aren't you outside? Don't you try to take a walk every day?" I mumbled something and slouched a little, still with an eye on the window. Holmes sat down on his armchair. "Right then. Perhaps you should know, doctor, that you're reading your paper upside-down."

I coughed. "I knew it was. I was… trying out a newfangled brain improvement idea I heard about."

Holmes shook his head. "No, you weren't. You just weren't paying attention. It's the weather, isn't it? Yes, I thought so. Water-types like you are always a little edgy on cloudy days like this. I love them, of course. Beautiful. Usually matches my thoughts." He scratched his jaw and stared out the window.

I did my best to take my mind off things. "Listen, Holmes, there's something that's been bothering me."

He didn't turn around. "The weather?"

"Well, yes, but also—"

"The lack of combat around here?"

I rubbed my shoulder. "No, that's a bit of a blessing at the moment. It's—"

"Your IQ?"

I frowned as Holmes smirked. "Now you're just being insulting, Holmes. No, it's that Serperior we talked to the other day. I mean, I thought it was all a load of hogphiffle, but he died mysteriously in his cell a little while later…"

Holmes nodded. "Just as he'd fortold, eh? And you think that because he died, his story must be true?"

"I know you must think I'm being silly again," I began.

"I'm inclined to agree with you, Watson." I blinked. He went on, "Yes, I know it doesn't happen often. But the controversial tale added to the mysterious death does speak of some grain of truth in his story. The history he told was definitely hard to swallow. It goes against absolutely everything you or I have been taught, for the love of Arceus! But he died after telling it. Does some person not want him to repeat it to more credulous others? I can't say for certain…" Holmes rubbed his jaw meditatively.

A knock came from the door. My flatmate seemed lost in thought, so I got up to open it. Mrs. Hudson's voice floated through the wood: "A Mr. Brock to see you, sirs. He says it's—what is it, dearie? Oh, yes. A matter of great delicacy, he says."

I stood with a hand on the doorknob, agape. The great Brock! The great Brock here to visit us! Brock, the man who embodied the government. Brock, the man with rock-hard ideals and determination. Brock, the man who came all this way from Kanto to embrace Unova's human segregation policies. This man was a politician who caught the public eye with his quiet strength and his famous squint, was termed a visionary by peers and rivals alike, and proposed to his beloved of forty years on national television. I opened the door, and there he stood, in the flesh! Age had not dimmed the sparkle in those mostly-closed eyes, had not stooped the strong shoulders, had not weakened the charming voice. The man was a role model to me, and one of the few humans I respected.

I stretched out a paw. "Mr. Brock. I cannot tell you what an honor this is."

The great man accepted the handshake calmly. "Thank you, sir. I assure you, the pleasure is all mine." He looked past me. "May I come in? I need a shoeshine."

I stood aside hastily. "Please, Mr. Brock, be seated. However, we do not shine-"

Brock strode past and pulled out an iPod and speakers. "All right then, gentlemen. Let me get some music on, and you may start your work. I'd like the black polish for these, please." He fiddled with the device for a little, and "Can't Buy me Love" by the Volbeatles started blasting out the speakers.

Brock slumped in my chair. "Ah, thank Arceus. I can speak freely with you now, gentlemen. Which of you is Sherlock Holmes?"

He raised a lazy hand. "I am Sherlock Holmes. I wish I could say it was a pleasure, Mr. Brock, but alas! It is not."

"Holmes!" I spluttered and lowered my voice. "Holmes, what the deuce do you think you're doing? This man is great! At least try to treat him civilly!"

Holmes brushed me aside and continued to speak to Brock, who looked completely calm and unsurprised. "Mr. Brock, you have passed bills raising human taxes, lowering human living conditions, and a hundred other difficulties besides. I have seen entire families uprooted and tossed on the streets because they did not have the money to pay their taxes. If you had a heart, if you had any sort of human sentiment—"

"What would you have me do, Mr. Holmes?" Brock broke in. "Do you think it's that simple to just pass a law to make things better? Do you think I can change the state of affairs with a flick of my fingers? I can't.

"I'm sure you two are perplexed as to why I have the nerve to just walk into your apartment and play music at full volume." I nodded; this had been bothering me. "I have a small microphone attached to my pant leg, planted there by the government I work for. They monitor everything I say. Any pro-human sentiment, any step against the government, and everyone I care for and I are tossed into the street, imprisoned, or killed. I've seen it happen, Mr. Holmes. This music means I can say what I need to without being overheard.

"As to your last query, I do have pro-human sentiment. I have always done the best I could to keep humans happy. While I couldn't pass laws directly helping humans, I could pass laws lessening prices of food or blankets, or authorizing the construction of shelters. I've always tried to give my help to humankind, Mr. Holmes, and now I have a problem that requires yours. Will you assist me?"

Holmes and Brock locked eyes while I scrabbled to keep a hold on the conversation. The government—the government threatened its representatives? Surely not… The idea's absurd. The Empire is always fair and just in its dealings. I learned all about it in my Sociology class as a sophomore in high school. But Brock says otherwise…

Holmes nodded. "I believe you, Mr. Brock. I've noticed an underlying strain or stress when you appear on television, and I've always wondered why. How may I help?"

Brock heaved a short sigh of relief and plunged into a narrative, speaking in a swift mutter. The song changed to "Dancing Queen" by ABRA. "I must make this quick, gentlemen. As you may have heard, I have recently proposed to the beautiful woman Joy, the object of my affections for many years. We will be married in a week or so. All should be well, but a woman from my past has appeared. I used to be a bit of a Don Juan as a youth, and I wrote long, indiscreet love letters to this Jenny girl. I made certain promises in these letters that Joy would be shocked to see. I cannot disappoint my beloved, gentlemen. I love Joy with every fiber of my being, but this woman Jenny threatens to show the letters to my fiancé if I do not meet her demands." Brock tossed a sheaf of papers tied with string onto the low table.

"What are these demands?" Holmes asked quietly.

Brock passed a hand over his eyes. "Impossible. She wants me to pass blatantly pro-human legislation. I would love to do so, but I am threatened with the loss of everything I have built here in Unova if I do."

Holmes leaned in. "And what have you built here? I know about you, Mr. Brock. You used to be a Pokémon trainer, living a happy life as Pewter City's Gym Leader. Why drop all that and come to segregated Unova?"

I stepped in. "He wanted to see the policies for himself—"

"Don't talk nonsense, Watson. There's something else."

Brock sighed. "Yes, you're right. This is highly confidential, gentlemen. Not a word of this gets past your door, understood? The truth is, the other regions are worried about Unova. They still believe humans and Pokémon should be partners; the separation in this region doesn't seem natural to them. I was sent here to try and improve conditions for the humans and leak information to the Pokémon League in Kanto."

I felt my jaw go slack. "You're a spy?" I asked incredulously.

Brock nodded. "If you want to put it that way, yes. I am a spy. But that is beside the point. I need you to get the letters back from the blackmailer Jenny, and do it discreetly. I cannot allow her to show the letters to Joy, or I lose my fiancé; I cannot accuse Jenny outright, as the punishment for 'corrupt' officials—or so I would be considered—is much the same as passing 'inappropriate' litigation. You are my last hope, gentlemen."

"Dancing Queen" came to a stop, and Brock stood up. "Well, thank you for the shoeshine, gentlemen. You really did me a favor there, and I'm sure you'll do well in all you attempt." He winked and gathered up his iPod and speakers. "Have a great day!" He walked out whistling the "Mission: Impossible" theme song.

We listened to his footsteps as he descended the stairs. "I say, Holmes, I'm beginning to have my doubts."

"Doubts about what?" Holmes began untying the papers.

I twisted at my moustache. "I mean—it's not just the Serperior now, is it? It's not just a possibly crazy veteran who's telling stories about a conspiracy. Brock is the least crazy human I can think of, and he's saying the same thing. There might be more than a grain of truth here, Holmes."

Holmes was struggling to untie the knot holding the sheaf together. "Watson, I never doubted the Serperior's story. There is a ring of truth in the confessing criminal's voice that cannot be mistaken… But I am unsure as to how much was truth, and how much was fantasy. We now have—make yourself useful and help me with this, will you?" I drew a sword and cut the string around the papers. "Thanks. We now have two identical tales from completely different individuals proclaiming the government to be full of lies and censorship. These individuals might just be crackpots, but I don't think so… Ah well. Let's save deep thinking for a rainy day, eh?" He chuckled at my tired glance at the clouds outside the window.

Holmes unfolded the newly untied papers and began to glance through them. "Well, this Jenny woman has guts, I'll give her that. See how she uses cursive on everything? She doesn't bother to conceal her handwriting… She even signs her name and address at the bottom."

"Perhaps she is merely foolish?" I suggested hopefully, but this was waved aside.

"No, Watson, I'm afraid not. Good blackmailers are never stupid people. Good blackmailers are clever enough to get what they want without any melodrama. She signs her name because she knows Brock can do nothing within the arm of the law to retrieve those papers. Brock knows it too.

"But Jenny miscalculated, and this is what I think Brock has employed us to do. He can't get the papers back legally, so he needs us to get them back by less conventional methods."

I choked a little. "You mean—you mean steal the letters?"

"Quick on the uptake today, aren't we?" He stood and grabbed his overcoat from the rack.

I spluttered as I stood. "But—but that's illegal!"

"Brilliant, Watson." Holmes swung round to face me. "What do you think Brock needs us for? We're quick, concise, and discreet, like a scalpel. And anyway, is it really illegal to steal from a blackmailer?"

"Yes. Theft is theft, Holmes. I'm sure any court would agree."

Holmes started down the stairs. "Come on. The foxes are fleeing!"

I shook my head and followed him.

* * *

"You know, you didn't have to tip the cabbie that much," I grumbled as we walked up Narrow Street.

"Nonsense." Holmes waved me away. "He's been unemployed for several months now, and he has two young children at home. He needed it."

I shook my head in wonder. "You know, I'm beginning to think there's some hidden kindness buried deep inside you."

Holmes gave me a wry look. "Watson, I bring killers to justice and solve peoples' problems for a living. How much kinder can you get?"

We'd arrived at a respectable old building built in the fashion of twenty years ago. Holmes checked the blackmail letter one more time and knocked. While we awaited the response, I kept an eye out for any shady characters. Never could tell in the Human Quarter…

The door opened a little. A woman's voice croaked out, "Hello? I told you, I never… Oh, you don't look like the police. I'm sorry. Give me half a second, would you?" There was the sound of several bolts being drawn back, and a fit woman of sixty with graying blue hair stood in the doorway. "Sorry about that act, gentlemen," she said more crisply, "but to the police I'm the senile old lady who manages to pay her mortgages by a miracle every month. Come in, come in."

The woman turned to let us through. She was still beautiful, by human standards; age had certainly not taken her looks.

The interior of the house was decorated in a pleasant lavender wallpaper, its shelves were covered in tchotchkes and pictures, and the floor was nicely carpeted. Some signs of decay showed through—exposed pipes and a little mildew—but they were clearly being fought against. The woman led us to a sitting room filled with plush chairs. An old Growlithe was curled up on one of the seats, and she looked up as we walked in. "Who're they?" she asked the woman.

The woman turned to us. "Excellent question, Arcanine. Just who are you, anyway? You're not from the police…" She scrutinized me. "You've come back from service in the Moors recently, haven't you, doctor?"

I threw up my hands and turned to Holmes. "Am I really this easy to read, Holmes? Can everybody see my life?"

"This woman isn't just anybody, whippersnapper," the Growlithe growled. "You have the honor of being in the presence of Officer Jenny, the greatest detective there ever was or will be!"

I felt Holmes stiffen and groaned inwardly. He wasn't about to let that go by, I could tell. He looked her over coldly. "Ex-officer, I should say. Humans aren't accepted in the force anymore." The woman Jenny sized Holmes up and sat in an armchair. He continued, "Yes… She scrapes by off a pension, based off the hurriedly opened envelopes on the-"

Jenny turned to me and spoke over Holmes. "He is quite the egoist, I see. His head shape speaks of intelligence, but his eyes lack—"

Holmes spoke louder. "—she is nearsighted—"

Jenny raised her voice to counter. "—he is a specialist—"

"—she used to be a Pokémon Trainer—"

"—he is unaccustomed to friendship—"

"—she hasn't quite let go of the past—"

"—he has not seen his brother in well over two years—"

"—she has a strong moral compass—"

"Enough!" Jenny roared quite loudly for a woman her age. She surveyed Holmes with something akin to respect. "You are quite observant, young man. Who are you really? Are you from Brock?"

Holmes nodded. "Yes. My associate and I are here to retrieve certain incriminating documents you have in your possession."

"Oh." Jenny snorted and turned away. "No. Sorry. Leave now."

Holmes seemed taken aback. "Our client is willing to pay any price—"

"So let him pay the price I named!" She looked back at Holmes. "I wanted better shelters for humans. I wanted food sent to the orphanages. I wanted stronger laws against human abuse. Are these demands so difficult to meet?"

The Growlithe slid down from her armchair. "Jenny and I have worked together for well-nigh forty-five years now. We have always fought for the safety of the community. When Pokémon were mistreated by cruel humans, we made sure the culprits were brought to justice. Now humans are being abused by the world. I don't know if either of you have noticed, but now policemen attack the humans they're supposed to protect. Humans are biased against by the same employers who claim to be 'equal-rights'. Humans are heavily taxed and put down by the government—a government full of men like Brock—created to enforce law and order. Can you blame us for wanting to protect them against this hypocrisy?"

Holmes seemed lost for words for the first time. I stepped forward to fill the breach. "Yes. I can. We have met Brock, and he is not the unfair hypocrite you paint him. He loves his fiancé enough to meet your terms, but he also loves his people and he loves the image of the government that should exist. He helps the humans here any way he can. Subtle ways, true, but they are the only way he can. If he does too much, he will be excommunicated and unable to help anyone. You would force him into something that would destroy him and everything he has worked for? If all humans are so shortsighted as you, I cannot blame anyone for putting you down." Holmes gave me an almost warm look, and I smiled back.

Jenny looked away, thought, and shook her head. "No, I—I'm sorry, but I can't give up. This may actually make the difference here, and we have waited so long for an opportunity like this." Holmes cleared his throat quietly. Jenny kept talking, but I glanced over at him. I found his eyes locked on to mine, and I watched them flick up to the exposed pipe above us, then back to me, then up, then back to me again.

Jenny was still talking. "—and Arcanine and I have cleaned up the streets… Yes, her name is actually Arcanine, I'm not just being nearsighted—" Holmes repeated his eye maneuver. In a flash, I understood.

I drew a sword with my good arm and slashed the pipe in the ceiling. Water began flooding the room, and the Growlithe yelped in agony and alarm. After a slight hesitation, Jenny rushed over to help her friend. "How dare you?" She shrieked, lifting up Arcanine. "This is what I hate about Pokémon these days. You—you prick, you think you can just waltz into my house and hurt my friends? Well—"

Holmes cut her off. "Quiet!" he barked and strode to the mantelpiece. "When the water started filling the room and your friend cried out, you did not immediately help her. I watched your eyes. They glanced over here, to the fireplace. Clearly something here was important enough to distract you from your best friend—ah!"

His hands felt under the lip of the mantelpiece and I heard a click. A small opening appeared at the base of the fireplace, and Holmes lifted out a few pieces of paper.

The woman flew at Holmes. "You bastard! Thief! Those are mine, give them back!"

I shoved her out of the way none too gently. Holmes shrugged. "We got what we came for, Ms.—Jenny, was it? You may send the bill for repairs to the government. Good day."

We exited the way we came. I turned for one last glimpse of the room: Jenny stood in the middle of a growing puddle of water, holding her partner, smiling in the oddest way…

* * *

"A Little Help from my Friends" by the Volbeatles was blaring back at the flat. Brock clapped his hands quietly in ecstasy. "I knew it!" he exclaimed in a whisper. "I thought to myself, if any mortal can get my letters back, it is Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes did his best to look modest. He failed utterly, of course, but I applauded the attempt. "Really, Mr. Brock, it was nothing."

"It really was nothing," I chipped in. "The job took almost no time at all."

Holmes's face darkened suddenly. "Yes," he muttered. "Yes, it really was nothing, wasn't it? Oh, Arceus…" He snatched the papers off the table.

I felt scandalized. "Holmes! You can't just do that! Those are Brock's personal letters—"

"But they're not, Watson." Holmes's face looked like thunder. He passed the papers to me and rubbed his temple. (I provided a copy of the letter here.)

_Dear Thieves _(they all ran)_,_

_ Congratulations on managing to abstract this letter. I'm impressed you got this far. No, Brock's letters are in a much more secure place than some silly secret cubbyhole. You won't get them back._

_ You won't need to, anyway. Brock need worry no more. I do not intend to release his love letters to his fiancé immediately. Doing so would remove whatever hold I have on him, and besides, I believe him to be an honest man. After I sent him the blackmail papers, I did some heavy thinking and researching. Brock does his best for the suffering humans, and I do mine. I shouldn't threaten him when his methods are different than the ones I employ. Farewell, Brock. I doubt we shall meet again._

_ Oh, and by the way. I'm keeping his love letters. They remind me of a better time, long ago…_

_ Love, Officer Jenny_

I puffed out my cheeks and released air. "Well, Mr. Brock, it seems your letters are safe, though we cannot reach them. Rest easy, sir, and the best of luck with your marriage."

I helped the politician pack up his sound systems and assisted him out the door. He seemed rather confused by what was going on, but took it all in stride in a most admirable way.

I wish I could say the same for Holmes, however. He still sat in the armchair, cradling his head in his hands. "Beaten," he muttered. "Beaten by an old woman…"

**That's the end of Chapter 2. Before I sign off, the Volbeatles? ABRA? That is hilarious. I'm expecting some laughter.**

**Yeah, I realize the beginning of the chapter meandered a little bit. It doesn't sound Sherlockian, I know, but I was stumped for how to start it off, and these were the words that popped out.**

**And yes, my absolute favorite character from the show turns up here. I know I'll be getting all these complaints about mixing the gameverse and the show, but it had to be done. It'll become clearer next chapter.**

**Alright, guys. Just like last time, please review! If you're afraid I'll message you or mention your profile by name, then review as a guest. That's fine, that's awesome. I need feedback, and I'll take whatever reviews I can get. I want to make this better, and to do so, I need critiques. Even if you think it's good, let me know. My ego could use a bit of swelling.**

**Enjoy life, guys, and I'll be back next week.**

**-Wordsmith**


	3. The Confirmed Bachelor

**Hey guys. Newest installment here, but before we get on with it, I'd like to do some housekeeping. First off, thanks a lot to Golden-Owl. I love long reviews, and Golden-Owl made some good points I think deserve addressing. First: yes, I had to switch Lestrade and Watson's personalities. In the actual stories, Lestrade's more of the skeptic, while Watson's all "good show, Holmes, pip pip" and that sort of thing. I decided I'd rather have Watson be skeptical, and it sort of fits with the whole Pokémon looking down on humans thing. Secondly, yes, everyone can understand Pokémon. I was going to bring up some long, complex psychological thing about how it's our fault that we can't understand them, but then I decided, nah. Everyone understands Pokémon in this story. That's how it is. Thirdly- and this is a good call by Golden-Owl- why is everyone talking in British accents if Unova is supposed to be America? I don't have an answer to this. I actually never made the connection between Unova and America, but now that I have, it's pretty obvious. I just thought that Castelia had all the feeling of the big city without the frippery of Nuvema or the creepy black buildings in Black City. Plus, I didn't want to get version-specific.**

**Finally, I'm really happy LeafGreenShippyXD caught that Arcanine thing last chapter. I was referencing the moment in the anime when one of the Officer Jennys commands her Growlithe "Arcanine! Use Flamethrower!"**

**One last thing, I don't know if anyone noticed, but Officer Jenny was a reference to Irene Adler, the only woman to ever have beaten Sherlock Holmes. Some people have them in a romance, but Holmes never struck me as the affectionate type, so no. By the way, there are references to all the more interesting characters in the Sherlock Holmes series: Irene Adler, Professor Moriarty, Col. Sebastian Moran, Mycroft Holmes, everybody. Some are by name, some aren't. Just sayin.**

**And after that long-winded Author's Note, let's get into it.**

Chapter 3: The Confirmed Bachelor

I quietly sat in my chair as Holmes practiced his violin. As I had discovered, life was generally slow at the flat. Of course, Holmes received many visitors, bringing their problems or worries, but most of these were either too simple or too boring to warrant my flatmate's attention. Most of the time he'd take maybe thirty seconds to work out a person's problem from the comfort of his own armchair; the client would lay their problem before him, Holmes would ask a few questions, and he would solve the problem and pocket their money. The people who came in were just as diverse as the problems they brought: widows with missing children, missing husbands, missing jewelry, missing pets; pompous government officials who lost important papers; children who wanted to see who the champion of their specie was. Plenty of Pokémon came, too, but not as frequently as the humans. I think they looked down on him for the most part, and the non-humans always walked in with expressions of sincere doubt on their faces.

Holmes would make a little game out of it. He would stand by the window on occasion and watch the Castelians go by, commenting on which bystander would come in next with help on what problem, deducing their occupation and whatnot before they even came up the steps. Sometimes he would have me ready with a stopwatch to see how long it took him to figure out the cases. His best time was for a wealthy Mandibuzz who needed to know where she could find her nephew; when she finished laying the problem before us, I started the stopwatch surreptitiously, and six and a half seconds later, we were three hundred dollars richer.

I think he got bored easily, Holmes did. He was surrounded by all these beings that pressed him with their petty problems, begging the magic man to do their work for them. He was a giant in a world of ants, and he was lonelier than anyone I have ever met. I don't think he really wanted my help on that Serperior murder; I think he really wanted my company. I think he pushed through Lestrade because he was "boring"—in the words of Holmes—just another adoring ant to be swept aside. I never worshipped him. I never shoved my problems and my money at him and told him to help. The most I ever gave him was a quiet respect, which I believe Holmes acknowledged and returned, eventually.

I figured all this out later, of course. At the time this story takes place, I was still lazing around, watching a jerk of a human work absolute miracles and awaiting the arrival of the Castelia Gazette.

So yes. On this particular day, about a week or two after our last adventure with Jenny, I sat around while Holmes improvised some sort of neo-classical work on his violin. We hadn't had a single visitor all day, and it was almost noon. I was absolutely starved, and jumped up when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door. She called, "Sorry, dearies, lunch isn't ready yet." I wilted, to Holmes's amusement. "But that Brock gentleman's back, sirs. Says it's a matter of the utmost importance this time." This last part was in something of a whisper.

Holmes and I shared a glance, and I threw open the door. Mrs. Hudson backed away and ushered in the politician Brock with the mail. He smiled wanly. "Hello, gentlemen. We may talk freely. This matter has struck me very close to home." Brock tossed the mail on the table and slumped in Holmes's chair again. Holmes had vacated it a few seconds ago, and he now raised a casual hand. "Hello, Mr. Brock. Usually, I would just impress a client with my brilliant deductive abilities by confronting you with your occupation and whatnot, but I knew these already. And yet—" he paused and gave Brock a once-over. "You are dressed as a groom, sir. I believe you said your wedding was yesterday, but your wife would never let you leave the house with powdered sugar all over your lapel. Marital troubles, Mr. Brock?"

The politician sighed. "I'm afraid you're correct, Mr. Holmes. In fact, my marital problems are precisely the reason I came to see you."

I frowned. "Mr. Brock, not to be rude, but Holmes and I are both bachelors, and always have been. We don't know much in the line of marriage."

He gave a short laugh. "To be frank, neither do I. I mean, the marriage ceremony part I understand all right, but I haven't gotten to married life yet."

I shook my head. "I still don't understand."

"No, it's all right. Neither do I. Mr. Holmes, I have heard stories of brides disappearing before the ceremony or during the honeymoon, but never have I heard of a newlywed vanishing the morning after."

Stroking my moustache, I leaned in. "Do you know of someone whose bride vanished like this?"

Holmes waved a hand at me. "Don't be stupid, doctor. The man refers to himself, do you not?"

Brock gave another sigh and a nod, and I rearranged my moustache. Holmes really had the most unbelievable rudeness sometimes. I didn't know how I could stand it. And socially, I was above him. I didn't want any kowtowing or anything, but I don't know… Politeness? Common courtesy?

Brock plunged into his narrative while I seethed. "Gentlemen, my wife is absolutely the most wonderful woman alive. I chased her for almost fifty years, and in that time I came to know her better than I do myself. Joy has these wonderful ways about her, how she can mend any hurt, mental or physical… How she laughs as she turns a persistent suitor down… The way her hair catches the light in the mornings—"

"Yes, yes. You know her well. We understand. Pray continue," Holmes cut in.

Brock blinked his way out of the rosy mist he was in. "Yes, well… We were both so happy on the way to the chapel. She was her beautiful, bubbly, kind, gorgeous—"

"Mr. Brock."

Brock cleared his throat. "Yes. Well. Suffice to say she was perfectly normal before the ceremony. With an emphasis on perfect. And yet when I put the ring on her during the ceremony, she was horribly pale and trembling. She could barely whisper out her part of the words. On the limousine ride back she was cold and distant, and she tossed and turned all night.

"The following morning—at the wedding breakfast we had for our closer family and friends—she came downstairs a little late. She seemed stronger and had regained her color, though I could tell her mind was still preoccupied. Nonetheless, she carried conversations with the guests quite amiably, and I thought her pain the day before was merely pre-marriage nervousness.

"Toward the end of the breakfast, Joy excused herself for the bathroom, or so I presumed. After twenty minutes, I went up to look for her, but she had—vanished.

"I ask you to find my wife, Mr. Holmes. You worked wonders for me in stifling those sensitive documents, and my hope is you will be able to do it again."

Brock sat back in the armchair, regarding Holmes with the air of a little boy watching a magician. Holmes remained motionless, staring into space, and I allowed myself some thought on the matter. Surely Jenny wouldn't have gone back on her promise to keep those papers to herself? She seemed quite trustworthy.

Holmes posed a question: "Did anything unusual occur during the actual marrying bit?"

I snorted. "'Marrying bit', Holmes? Your command of language astonishes me."

Brock shook his head. "No, I understand what he means. There wasn't any—wait, no. No there was one trifling matter while Joy was being escorted down the aisle. She dropped her bouquet in the pews, you see, but nothing ill occurred. The polite gentlemen in the seat gave it back, and all was well. I don't see how it's of any importance."

Holmes made a dismissive gesture. "Yes, well, you're not the professional detective here. No, let me decide what is important and what isn't. Anything else? This was a private marriage?"

"No, nothing else." Brock shook his head again. "And no, this was a public ceremony. Anyone could have walked in to watch."

I stepped forward. Holmes gave me an astonished look, but I proudly posed a question of my own. "Tell me, Mr. Brock, were there any signs of violence in your room when you checked on your wife?"

"No, I'm certain there weren't. She was there, though. The window was open, and it's a short drop to the ground from there."

I nodded and retreated. Holmes glared at me. "Well, Watson? Any more questions? No? Very well. Mr. Brock, we shall find your wife for you. Do not distress yourself further."

Brock left, and Holmes scratched his nose sheepishly. "Er, Watson… That was a solid question back there. I congratulate you on your ability to form coherent questions."

I chuckled. "Thank you, Holmes, on that wonderful backhanded compliment."

"Anytime."

We sat in silence for a while. I considered the case. Joy was fine before the wedding but ashen-faced and unsteady afterwards. Clearly something happened during the ceremony. But Brock said there was nothing wrong—no, that's not true. Joy dropped her bouquet. Surely something as simple as that wouldn't unnerve her so completely. "I say, Holmes, I know you're thinking and all—"

"Something you should try, Watson."

"—but something occurred to me, and I thought you should consider it." I plowed on. "I'm beginning to think that accident with the bouquet wasn't as slight as Brock made it seem."

I met Holmes's incredulous look with a defiant air. Holmes was cruelly derisive: "Come now, Watson, you're suspecting our client? Brock, of all people?"

I shrugged. "Well, yes. I'm only suggesting—"

"You're not suggesting anything." Holmes cut in. "Nothing I hadn't already considered. Brock gains nothing by abducting his wife. He was absurdly devoted to her and stalked her for forty years or something. No, Brock didn't downplay the incident because it was a small incident in itself. It did not strike him as being important, and so he spoke of it as such. But _I_—the great Sherlock Holmes—_I_ know."

"I think 'great' is going a bit far," I interrupted quietly, but Holmes plowed on.

"No, that so-called 'slight' incident with the bouquet unnerved the poor woman. I doubt marriage worries would last into the day after, so that flower incident bothered her for some other reason. What, though?"

I gave up. "I don't know. Pass me the mail, would you?"

"Why do you want the mail? It's just bills."

I snorted again. Something lodged in my nose, and I hacked and coughed to get it out. "The paper's in with the bills," I wheezed. "You know, Holmes, for the World's Greatest Detective, you can be quite slow sometimes."

Holmes held out the mail, but the insult didn't seem to register. His breath caught. "Oh—ah. Well. Yes, I suppose I am slow, seeing how I just missed something so obvious as that. Just like the paper amidst the bills."

I gave him an incredulous look. "Just what are you on about?"

"Oh, I feel stupid for not noticing earlier… I can understand you not noticing, but it's inexcusable coming from me." He got up and paced.

I coughed gently. "I'm sorry, Holmes, but I don't follow."

"You and I were misled by the dropping of the bouquet. We believed that the actual action of dropping the flowers was what caused her stress. But this doesn't follow. Why would a sensible woman of sixty be so flustered over a little thing like a dropped bouquet? It doesn't make sense, and so we must look deeper. If it was not the dropping of the flowers that made her so pale, it must have been some other occurrence during the ceremony."

I blinked. "I'm sorry, but—"

"Think, Watson! What happened directly after she dropped her bouquet?"

I rubbed a shoulder. "Well, some man gave it back to her. Ah, I see what you're saying. It was the gentleman who passed it back what scared her."

"Exactly." Holmes stopped pacing and faced me in my armchair. "This man might have been an old lover, an old husband, someone who knew something… Something along those lines. Whoever he was, his presence startled her, and I think she fled with him the next day. He must've had some power over her to make her leave Brock so unceremoniously. No struggle means she left voluntarily. Am I making sense?"

I nodded. "I can follow it pretty well. What you say seems a definite possibility, though I don't see the connection to the dropping of the bouquet."

Holmes gesticulated violently. "Neither do I, but mine is the only possibility. It provides an explanation for why Joy disappeared, why there was no sign of a struggle in her room, why she was so distressed during the marriagement… Everything. Call Brock. Do we have his number?"

I was already walking towards the phone. "He left his card."

I dialed the number and listened to the line at the other end ring for a second. Brock picked up, and he sounded less than his usual self. "Go away, whoever you are."

I scratched my jaw awkwardly. "Ah, Brock? This is Dr. Watson."

The voice on the other end didn't seem to care. "Dr. Watson? Tell Mr. Holmes his services will not be needed on this one."

I frowned and glanced at Holmes, who was gesticulating at me. "Holmes's services won't be necessary? But Mr. Brock, we've found out why she left, and—"

The voice on the other end cut me off remorselessly. "She's dead, Dr. Watson. My Joy is dead. They found the wedding dress she was wearing in the harbor." His voice broke.

I was at a loss. "My Arceus… I—oh, Arceus, I am so sorry, Mr. Brock."

"It's not your fault, doctor. It's mine. I knew I shouldn't have married her. I should've just idolized her from a distance like I've always done…"

Brock continued to berate himself. I glanced at Holmes again, and he mouthed "What happened?"

I covered the mouthpiece with my hand. "Joy is dead."

Holmes's face underwent a complex series of emotions. Confusion was there, as was hurt, rage, helplessness. "I—I – no. No. Watson, I cannot believe it."

"My dear Holmes, you aren't infallible. Everyone makes mistakes, and—"

He ignored my consolations and cut me off. "No, it cannot be so!" He slammed his fist into the low table. "It doesn't fit! Joy was a smart woman, she wouldn't have run from Brock with an untrustworthy person… It doesn't make sense. Were there any signs of violence on the body?"

I shook my head. "No, they only found her dress in the harbor."

Holmes looked up and his face cleared. A broad grin—the first one I'd seen from him—broke out and he punched the palm of his other hand. "Ah, Watson, that changes everything! Tell Brock his wife is still alive."

I raised an eyebrow but put the phone back to my ear. Brock was crying now, still proclaiming his incompetence and mistakes. "Mr. Brock—Mr. Brock—listen, man, get a hold of yourself. Your wife is not dead. Mr. Holmes will find her for you."

The sniveling on the other end ceased, and Brock's watery voice returned. "He will?" I noticed Holmes making gestures for the phone. "Hang on, here he is now." I passed the phone over to Holmes and returned to my armchair.

"Mr. Brock? Yes, this is Sherlock Holmes. Now—eh? Yes, yes, I will. Now I have a question. Could they salvage anything from the dress?… A suicide note? I don't care about that. What was it written on?… A receipt? A receipt for where?… The—the Diogenes Club? Right. Yes, we will."

Holmes hung up and sat in his armchair. He looked perturbed, and I asked why. "What's the matter, Holmes? Are you unhappy you've proved Joy's continued existence?"

"No, no, I'm glad she still lives. It's—" he stopped and continued in a rush, "Oh, it's my brother."

I stared. "Wha—your brother? Forgive me, but I fail to see how your brother fits into all this. I didn't know you even had a—oh, yes I did. Lestrade told me."

He rolled his eyes. "Lestrade would. His name is Mycroft. He's a little older than me, but I lost sight of him after he disappeared from Nimbasa University." Holmes tapped a finger thoughtfully against the arm of his chair.

I was still staring. "Holmes, does your brother actually have anything to do with this case, or are you just bringing him up for the heck of it?" A sudden suspicion crossed my mind. "Have—have you been on Dream Mist again? I thought I warned you—"

Holmes waved an airy hand. "Shut up, Watson. Of course I haven't been doing Mist. I haven't touched the stuff since you destroyed my supply. Thank you for that, by the way. My cough has cleared up admirably. But yes, my brother does play a role in this. A receipt was found in Joy's dress from the Diogenes Club. They serve an admirable lunch there, so I've heard, so at least she has good taste… But the thing is, you have to be a member to eat there, or a member has to be with you. Very exclusive club, it is, and Mycroft is its sole founder. It is populated by distinguished Pokémon and people well into their eighties and nineties; Mycroft is the only patron under thirty. I'm worried that my brother is somehow involved in this whole affair."

I tried to comfort him. "Come now," I shrugged. "You just said there are plenty of other people who frequent the Diogenes Club. Ancient they may be, but Joy is no spring chicken herself. She could easily have been visiting one of them."

He cheered up a little. "So she could, so she could. Quick Watson, a cab! The turkeys trot at an alarming rate!"

I ran down the stairs after him.

* * *

The Diogenes Club was a stately and pompous sort of building. The walls were free of graffiti, and the human footman at the door stood proudly at attention. As we neared him, he barked, "Speech is permitted only in the Green Room, sirs."

We entered. The interior was richly appointed and just as pompous as the outside. There was a deep carpet laid out on the floor and bookshelves lined every wall. Aged Pokémon and (a few) humans were seated in armchairs dispersed around the room, reading or gazing off into space. Some were asleep, or dead. Hard to tell, really.

Holmes motioned for me to follow him. We crept through the room, our footsteps noiseless in the deep carpeting. Holmes's glance alighted on a person sitting by a window in the next room. As we got closer, I noticed the man bore a distinct impression to my flatmate, though the stranger was seated in a wheelchair. Holmes tapped the man on the shoulder and he turned. The poor man's legs were gone, I could see now. He looked us over, gave a warm smile to Holmes, and beckoned us into some adjoining room.

"Well, Sherlock, what brings you here? Who's your friend?" The man's voice was smooth and friendly.

Holmes gestured at me, though his eyes were still on the man. "Mycroft, this is—"

Mycroft shushed him. "No, wait, let me guess. He's a doctor—an army doctor—recently returned from the Moors. I'm Sherlock's brother, so you know."

I sighed. I was getting used to being profiled by then. Nonetheless, I turned to Holmes and asked, "Does this detective thing run in the family, Holmes?"

"On my mother's side, yes," Holmes grunted, still focused on the man. "Arceus, Mycroft, what—what happened to your legs?"

The man waved an airy hand. That hand waving seemed to run in the family as well, I thought. "Just a flesh wound, Sherly. Nothing to be concerned about."

Flesh wound or not, it clearly disturbed Holmes, and I watched his eyes flick over Mycroft's body. Mycroft frowned. "Don't you analyze me, Holmes, you know that's rude. There are things about me—"

Holmes interrupted him. "Brother, what's in that satchel?" He pointed to a bag at Mycroft's hip.

Mycroft's chuckle was forced and uneasy. "Why, that's just my medication. Now—"

"No. it isn't." Holmes's voice was deadly calm. "There are compartments for medication on your wheelchair. Handicapped people have no need for unfashionable carrying-cases. Since the bag serves no practical or fashionable purpose, there is something in it that you want to have with you but wish to keep concealed. I'll ask you again, Mycroft. What's in the satchel?"

Mycroft sighed, and his youngish face creased in wrinkles of resignation. "You got me, Sherlock. I'm sorry to have to do this, but I'll show you." His hand stretched slowly into the satchel and quickly came out again brandishing a red-and-white ball. He pushed the button in the center, there was a flash of light, and an Alakazam appeared before us.

"You're a Pokémon trainer?" I shouted. My flatmate looked surprised, but I only felt anger. Holmes trusted this man, and this is how his trust is repaid?

Mycroft's voice floated around from behind the Alakazam. "Yes, I am. Alfred here is my partner. We cannot allow you go blabbing our secret around. Don't cause any permanent damage, Al."

The Alakazam nodded and brandished his spoons, preparing some powerful attack, but I lunged forwards with a glowing head and Megahorned him before he could. His eyes widened as he collapsed, unconscious. Mycroft's shout of "Alfred!" sounded a little hysterical. He tried to bend over to check the Alakazam's pulse.

"What're you doing, Mycroft?" Holmes sounded tired. "I'm your brother." He glanced at me, then back to his brother. "Why attack us?"

My eyes never left Mycroft. "He's a Pokémon Trainer, Holmes. The lowest scum to ever walk the planet. I could end it now, if you like. A Razor Shell to the neck would be a public service."

I stepped forward, raising a blade, but Holmes put a hand to my chest to hold me back. "Wait. Sheath your swords. I'd like to hear what my- what this person has to say."

I slid my swords back into their sheaths. Mycroft drew breath. "I—I'm sorry—"

"Save it," Holmes interrupted. "I don't want your apologies. Explain yourself before we call the police."

Mycroft's eyes widened. "What?"

"You heard me. We were brothers, Mycroft, but that was before you tried to kill my friend and I—"

"No!" Mycroft shouted. "Never kill you. Not even hurt you! Alfred would've put you to sleep is all, and we would flee this place. Would you listen already?" Holmes folded his arms but said nothing. "Thank you," Mycroft continued more quietly. "I have explanations for everything. It started when I was in Nimbasa U. As I told you in a letter, I had decided to major in Unova history. Not many students were human, and few—very few—major in anything but politics or teaching. I was unique.

"One night, I was researching my groundbreaking thesis 'Pokémon were better off partnered with humans' in the campus library when a Bisharp and an Eelektross walked up to my table. The Bisharp was a girl, I think, and she spoke very aggressively. Something to the effect of 'So you're a history buff, huh? We've heard your thesis and we find it offensive. Here's a choice: drop out or die.' I'd always thought that the tough talkers were never anything but talk, so I politely refused to do either. The Eelektross made a sniffing noise and blasted a Thunderbolt at me.

"It was agony, Sherlock. Agony. I thought my body was being split in two. I rolled around on the ground, trying to escape the pain, but my attacker was relentless. The bolts stopped suddenly, however, and I opened my blistered eyelids to see the Eelektross unconscious on the floor. Apparently one of the students in the library—an Alakazam—had felt bad for me and shot a Psybeam at my attacker. The Bisharp swore and yelled, 'Abort!' and the library was suddenly on fire. She pulled the Chandelure out the exit, but I could not escape; I was paralysed from the effects of the Eelektross's Thunderbolt. I just closed my eyes and awaited a fiery death. The Alakazam came to my rescue again, however, and teleported us out of there. He tended to my wounds as best he could, but I had to lose the legs.

"We had bounties on our heads by the time we hit the streets again; the Bisharp and the Chandelure probably framed us for the burning of the library. We had nowhere to go. Alfred had heard something about a Resistance group working to make humans and Pokémon partners again. We were pretty close by then, and we both believed in what the group was saying.

"We joined the Resistance and rose quickly through the ranks. When our leaders, Cheren and Bianca, were killed in a raid, they named us as successors. I've been leading the Resistance ever since." The Alakazam had woken up and stood quietly beside Mycroft.

"You two are rebels, to boot? Oh, you are so getting locked up—"

"Shut up, Watson." Holmes's voice cut through my tirade. "They won't be turned in."

I turned to Holmes in disbelief. "You can't be serious, Holmes. These two are wanted criminals—"

"Who will not be captured now." Holmes looked at me earnestly. "Watson, think. Have you ever even heard of any rebellion going on?"

I thought for a moment. "Well, I was fighting insurrection in the Moors—"

"No, no." Holmes shook his head. "Those are mostly wild Pokémon who refuse to be brought under the Empire's command. I mean citizens of the Empire who are discontented with the way things are run and who choose to fight their nation."

I shrugged. "No, I suppose not, but what does it matter?"

"It means the government's kept things from the populace." Mycroft joined in. "This is no small rebellion. This is a real, protesting, fighting revolution going on. And yet somehow the government hasn't told you. They haven't told anyone."

Holmes nodded at his brother. "I've become unconvinced about the whole separating humans and Pokémon, Watson. First the Serperior's story of a violent coup, then Brock's admissions of scare tactics and excommunication within the government, and now a rebellion out in the open that somehow we've never heard about. These aren't the stories of isolated psychos like we've been told."

I looked away. Yes, the evidence for a less-than-honest government was beginning to pile up, but Pokémon Trainers were still slavers. I voiced this last bit aloud, but Alfred the Alakazam stepped forward. "This is not true. When they were younger, Cheren and Bianca were legitimate, card-carrying Pokémon Trainers. They always treated their Pokémon with love and respect, the same way everyone did back then. The Pokémon and the Trainer bonded from mutual necessity and formed a powerful team. The only people our ex-leaders ever witnessed abusing their Pokémon were the grunts from the same organization that took power. The past is not what the government wants you to think."

I felt horribly, horribly confused. My head spun and my thoughts chased each other around. I kept thinking, What if it's true? What if it's true?

I watched Holmes make his goodbyes to Mycroft and Alfred. I heard him ask, "Oh, and by the way. The reason for our visit was to investigate the disappearance of a woman by the name of Joy. She disappeared a day after getting married to our client, Brock, and he's worried about her. Did you have anything to do with that?"

Mycroft chuckled. "Yes. She's a member of the Resistance as well. I heard she was getting married to an official in the government and had one of my agents go sit in on the wedding. She needed to ask herself if the rebellion or her husband was more important, and it shook her up pretty badly. She's made her choice, though. Brock will have his bride back, although we can make a few arrangements…"

I'm sorry, but my head was in pain by that time, and I cannot remember anything after that.

* * *

The next day, I noticed a small headline about Brock disappearing. No signs of a struggle, bed not slept in, the usual rot. Lestrade was reported to be baffled, and we received a phone call from Scotland Yard asking for help. We declined after we got an unsigned postcard from the Diogenes Club. It said, "Hard rocker finally found joy. They are together at last. Nice to have honeymooners at our humble HQ."

**There you have it. As I've said before, I've always been kinda weak with beginnings. I tend to string together words and thoughts typical to Watson and see what pops out. What popped out was almost a full page of Watson doing some deep thoughts before we actually got to the story. I don't even know.**

**One last thing before I sign off, and this is important. It's how people and Pokémon get killed, and I'm surprised nobody's brought it up. I've always considered humans to be rather fragile. I think that most Pokémon attacks would really be able to kill a human. None of that bull about Ash surviving Thunder attacks from Pikachu in this story. That never made sense. It's proportional, though; if a Caterpie Tackles you, you'll maybe get some bruising. If an Onix Tackles you, you're dead.**

**Pokémon, on the other hand, are different. They can survive legitimate attacks, to my mind. This gets a little tricky, so bear with me. If Watson was to use Razor Shell on a Caterpie, the Caterpie would at worst be knocked out. The use of one of the four attacks a Pokémon learns prevents permanent harm to Pokémon. This is how Pokémon survive in territorial disputes and battles, and how Alfred the Alakazam survives a horn going through his chest. However, if Watson was to just swing his sword at a Caterpie without using Razor Shell, the Caterpie would sustain physical damage at least. I mean, slicing stuff with a sword doesn't have an elemental typing, there's no weaknesses or resistances. Sharp swords would cause mutilation to most things.**

**So to conclude: actual attacks like Thunderbolt or Megahorn would not actually kill Pokémon in this story; actually hitting a Pokémon with a sword or stabbing one with a sharp horn could hurt them. Humans are susceptible to both kinds.**

**As always, review! According to my traffic graph, something like 90 people have viewed this story. Please, guys, no one will judge if you flame this or just say "it's nice" or "it's bad". I just need reviews. They inflate my ego.**

**Questions, comments, concerns, just review or PM me. I'll be back next week.**

**-Wordsmith**


	4. The Hounds of Icirrus

**Sorry about the late update, guys. It was a long chapter, and I procrastinated, and I haven't had enough time because I do have other stuff to do. My bad. I made it up to you with an extra 1000 words. You're welcome.**

**Let's not get into another boring author's note, ok? I like this chapter, and one old face in particular returns...**

Chapter 4: The Hounds of Icirrus

Holmes studied the postcard.

I tried to help speed up his analysis. "I think 'rock man' is a reference to Brock, and 'joy' is—"

"I know what it means, Watson," Holmes interrupted. "Honestly. I'm the brains of the outfit, remember? I should think I could figure out a simple message like this."

I sighed. Holmes really was irritating. You couldn't talk to him for five minutes without him putting you down, or praising himself, or passing judgment on where you got certain mud stains.

On this particular occasion, I felt rather tired of it, so I decided to make one of my infrequent sallies back at Holmes. "So, Holmes… How's your girlfriend?" I gave him a little nudge with my fist.

"What are you talking about?" His head was still down, examining the card, but I noticed a little red creep into his face.

"Didn't I see you with a young lady in the street the other day? She was rather pretty, and you two seemed quite close…" I let the suggestions trail off. Of course, I had seen no such thing. I merely enjoyed pushing Holmes's buttons about the fairer sex when he annoyed me.

"No, Watson, you didn't. I am still a bachelor, and always will be." He continued to not look at me.

I gave him another playful shove. "And why, eh? You're good-looking, as far as humans go. You could find yourself a girlfriend without too much trouble." I was having fun now, and I sat back in my chair contentedly. "Of course, you'd have to lose that egoist attitude you have there."

Holmes finally looked at me and scowled. "Excuse me, but I am not an egoist."

I snorted. "Really."

"Yes, really. I'm better than everyone. Why on earth shouldn't I admit it?" He held his nose up with this comment, apparently missing the extraordinary irony.

That always riles me up, that does. Hypocrites. I hate them. I leaned forward. "But see, you're not."

"Not what? An egoist?"

"Not better than everyone." I held up a paw to stem his arguments. "Yes, I won't deny that you have a very specific skillset that suits you very well in your specific niche. But I can do lots of things better than you. I might not be able to make certain snide deductions on where I took my walk based off mudstains, but I can shoot beams of ice out of my hands. Can you do that? No? Funny, I can. Do you know five different ways to take down any given Pokémon? I do. Can you even defend yourself in a fight?"

My shots told; Holmes definitely seemed wounded. "I was four-time human boxing champ back at Castelia University," he mumbled.

I waved this aside in a very Holmes-esque manner. "Yes, yes, but what good is that in an actual fight? You can't expect your enemies to fight fair and polite in combat. No referee's going to step in if the opponent starts using his legs, or a nearby weapon. Any Pokémon would tear you to shreds. We have distinct biological advantages that enable us to do extraordinarily well at a lot of stuff. Look at me, for example; I was given a blade from birth by my maker. I was clearly meant to be a fighter, so that was what I did."

Holmes shook his head. "But what if you wanted to become a weightlifter, or a musician, or something?"

"I never wanted to. Not once did I feel like being anything other than a soldier, a battler. I could beat any human swordsman. Leave weightlifting to the Machamp; any one of them could out-lift a human powerlifter. Leave music to the Kricketune; any one of them could out-perform a human soloist. Pokémon can do anything better than you, Holmes. Don't go kidding yourself that you're special."

He looked right at me. "I am special, Watson. I believe every human is special. See, it's our belief that we can do anything we put our minds to. The same human child could grow up to become a great musician, or a great fencer, or a great weightlifter; whatever it wants. While you Pokémon are limited by what you feel you were meant to do, we humans are unfettered by 'biological advancements'. I'd love to see a Machamp play a violin or a Kricketune lift weights. And not all Pokémon can do better than humans. I don't see any other great detectives around these parts, do you?"

I shrugged his logic away. "I don't know… Lestrade seems pretty capable…"

"Lestrade is, like any one of you Pokémon, a fool." Holmes slammed his fist down on the low table. "Dammit Watson, why can't you admit that I am the best?" His voice was raised now.

"Because you're not, that's why." I raised my voice to match his. "Look at yourself, man. You sound like a petulant child." A thought crossed my mind. "And I'm sorry, did you just make a generalization across my entire specie?"

"Yes, I did. Your kind lack moral judgment or faith in yourselves—"

"It's called modesty, Holmes! You should try it sometime, it might—"

"Oh no, don't you bring my ego into this—"

A timid knock echoed from the door. Holmes and I stopped shouting and quickly assumed semi-casual positions on our respective armchairs, not looking at each other. The door opened, and Mrs. Hudson poked her head through. "Excuse me, sirs—I didn't mean to interrupt you gentlemen, I'm sure, but you were shouting half loud enough to raise the dead, you were. Honestly, what the neighbors think—"

My flatmate didn't seem to care what the neighbors will think. "What is it, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked.

Mrs. Hudson remembered herself. "Oh yes. A gentleman to see you, Dr. Watson. A Mr. Murray, I believe. He says it's rather urgent."

I stood up. "Murray? Send him in, send him in." Mrs. Hudson withdrew her head and the door opened. In flopped my old friend Murray, now a Palpitoad, with a young Audino by his side. I felt like I should say something, but no words came. I merely embraced him silently.

Murray endured the hug, and moved back a bit. "I say, Watson, I haven't much time," he began, "but I know your wound's been bothering you rather a lot, and my girlfriend here would like to take a look at it."

I raised my eyebrow a little at the word "girlfriend" and turned to the Audino. She quietly waved a hand and stepped forward. I stood bemusedly by as she twisted my arm this way and that, probing with gentle touches. Murray blew a kiss (I presume at her), moved away to give us space, and tried to strike up a conversation with Holmes. "I figure it's best to get things done ASAP, eh? That's my motto. Anyway, Audrey's a whiz at this sort of thing. She can do some amazing things with those hands, if you know what I'm saying." He gave a hearty chuckle and nudged Holmes. Holmes did his best to ignore Murray and to read the upside-down newspaper he held.

Audrey the Audino didn't seem to be listening to her boyfriend's chatter. She told me to "Hold still, please" in a rather businesslike tone and held my arm up above her head. I stood there awkwardly for a few seconds, having my arm held by a stranger while Murray made one-sided conversation to Holmes. A ball of pink energy suddenly appeared and surrounded my shoulder, and I relaxed. Sheer ecstasy, don't you know. Wonderful stuff. When the energy dispersed, the Audino removed her hands, and I tested my shoulder. The pain was completely gone, to my amazement. I told her so.

"Good," she said, but without surprise. "Now Dr. Watson, I'm going to put you on an Entrainment treatment. I'll just switch your ability with mine until you heal up completely."

"Ah." I was a little skeptical. "What's your ability?"

"Regenerator, I should say," Holmes muttered. "She's going to switch your Torrent for her Regenerator, which will keep you regaining your health."

Holmes didn't look at me and continued to pretend to read his newspaper. I didn't respond to him and kept my attention on Audrey. "Go ahead, miss."

Audrey suddenly started dancing, and I felt myself dancing with her, although goodness knows why. I don't dance as a rule, for the record, but I was going along fine with her. There was a flash of light, and the dance was over as suddenly as it begun.

"All right, then. It should wear off in a couple days." The Audino smiled and walked back to Murray's side.

"See, Watson? I told you getting a professional to look at that wound would do you a world of good," Murray chided me. I looked away and muttered something about not affording a professional. Murray moved on without listening to me, to my relief. "Right then." He cleared his throat. "Ah, I say, Watson, now that you're all healthy—and this is in no way a demand, you understand—I, err… This is deuced awkward, you see… Oh, how shall I put this…"

Audrey spoke up. "Toadie would like to know if you could rejoin the Marines. Right, Toadie?"

I was stunned. I opened my mouth—though what I was going to say, I haven't the foggiest—perhaps a comment on Murray's rather comical nickname—but Murray stumbled through, blushing: "Yes, well, things are getting a little odd down at the Moors, you see, and our squad's going AWOL under suspicious circumstances, and it's exactly like a slasher movie, and I could really use some help, Captain." These last words tumbled out in a rush.

My mouth was still open. "Rejoin the unit?" I mumbled.

Murray hastened to respond. "It's temporary, you understand. I mean, you could be there unofficially. Or officially. We could say you were on temporary leave all this time, and—"

My brain was starting to function. "Our squad—our squad's going AWOL?" I felt myself burning a little inside. The 'Mon would never go AWOL when I was squad leader.

Murray was still fumbling with himself. "Well, yes, Jensen and Felton and Dacks all went out for a little air, and they never came back. You know, it could all just be some silly little thing, there might not be anything really wrong—"

"Who's in bloody command now? Who's responsible?" I roared. I'm not sure why I was angry; I was rather fond of Jensen and Dacks when I was in the service, though Felton could've gone to Hell for all I cared. Felton put mud in my bedsheets, can you believe it? Little prankster. But they were all good soldiers; maybe not as blindly following as Murray, but they would all follow the cause they believed in. I suppose we're all like that, aren't we.

Murray swallowed. "Well, sir, after you left the squad, Sergeant Reelock was promoted—"

"Reelock?! The Octillery, Reelock? The one who swamped the barracks in boot camp?" I put a hand to my head and sat down; it was all a little hard to take in. "Arceus… Well, how does the bungler account for the disappearances?"

"Well, he said he put in a full report of the situation, and he told me he planned to keep all the remaining men in one room together so none of them would disappear."

"Any plans for finding the lost men?"

"Well, he put in a full report…"

I punched my palm. "I would search for them myself, if I had to… But Reelock seems to have this all under control. What do you need me for?"

Murray sighed and shook his head. "It's just… I don't know, Captain. I've never really hit it off with any of the other 'Mon in our squad. I can hear them muttering a lot together but they stop when Reelock or I walk in the room. I think—I think they believe I'm responsible for Jensen, Felton, and Dacks's disappearances. You were the only one I really connected with, and the 'Mon all respect you. I'd like to have you there, for support. As a friend, sir?" His eyes were large and imploring.

Now, let me set something straight. I was squad leader for a brief period after our old CO got killed. In the time I was in charge, the 'Mon grew to like and respect me; I was a leader to them when I had to be, and a friend to them on the off hours. They talked to me about their troubles, I would sympathize. They never liked Murray much, although I still don't understand why. Murray would come up to them with some happy comment and they would all go play foosball somewhere else. It broke the poor blighter's heart, I could see that, so I took him under my wing. Those little puppy-dog eyes always made me feel bad for him, and I never could say no. I didn't say no here, either. "Of course, Murray. Now, did Jensen, Felton, and Dacks all disappear at the same time? Did one of them disappear at one point, and did it become one of those here-let's-go-split-up-to-look-for-someone- things they have in scary movies?"

He shook his head. "No, Jensen vanished the first night. We were all tucking in for the night in the barracks, he was there; the next morning, he was gone. Bed was tousled, but none of us heard anything. The next night, Felton and Dacks asked permission to go for a walk. Captain Reelock granted it, they went out for a stroll, and never came back. The morning after that, I got a short leave to come here."

I nodded slowly, taking it in. My personal opinion was that it was some sort of bad slasher plot, but I supposed these things still happened. It could easily have been the work of the insurrectionists in Icirrus; capturing the Marines one by one would be an effective way to cut our numbers. I turned to Holmes, but he wouldn't meet my eyes. I sighed. "Holmes, don't sulk. What do you think?"

Holmes shrugged petulantly and flipped a hand. "What does my opinion matter? I'm an egoist, remember? I'm useless."

"Oh, come on." I rolled my eyes. "Don't be like that. You're not useless."

He put up the hand, palm out. "No, no, it's not a problem. _You _can go help him. You don't need the help of a human, surely. I'll just sit around and do some egoist stuff. Talk to my girlfriend."

I suppose Murray saw aw chance to befriend Holmes. "Oh, you have a girlfriend? You don't really look like the girlfriend type… Still, good for you." Murray gave an approving nod, but Holmes threw up his hands and stalked off to the lab/kitchen area. Murray looked bewilderedly at me. "Did I say something?"

* * *

I breathed in the cold, crisp, Icirrus air. It'd been a while since I was there last, and the town had undergone some rather large changes. It wasn't even a town; it was a full-blown city, with walls and shops and a park. More barracks, that was new… The mess tent was definitely refurbished…

I'm sorry; I'm getting caught up in my memories. My psychiatrist tells me that it's normal, that they will come and go, but it's frightening how real they seem sometimes. You haven't been to Icirrus recently, have you? No, it's my fault. I should explain more. History lesson coming, so be prepared.

When N came to power (peacefully or otherwise, it matters not in this little narrative), most of the populace submitted to him and the will of Zekrom. Legendary Pokémon, once awakened, are not to be ignored, and the Unovans bended to his will very happily. (Some, according to Mycroft, not so happily, but this is the story as I learned it as a child.) Most of the Pokémon living in the wild were persuaded to come live in the cities, and they joined society quite quickly. However, some of them refused to leave their homes in the wild. I was taught to believe they were savages who preferred squalor and ignorance to proper upbringings like the one I had. The wild Pokémon wanted to keep their ancestral homes, and resisted attempts to persuade them. Most of the persistent areas—the Desert Resort area, the Giant Chasm—were eventually converted thanks to the efforts of the Marines, but the vast and unexplored northern moors remained untamed. There was a threat of a counter-rebellion from there, there were rumors the wild Pokémon were allied to "civilized" people with connections in Unova, and so the majority of the military forces were placed in the then-small town of Icirrus to protect Unova and launch attacks into the Moors. There were quite a few soldiers involved here, and so merchants of all kinds flocked to Icirrus to provide for the soldiers' every need. Icirrus became the base of most of our current military actions and so became a city rivaling Castelia or Nimbasa. Any attack by the wild Pokémon on the city was usually uncoordinated and easily turned aside.

When I joined up a few years before this chapter, I rose quickly through the ranks. I did a lot of reconnaissance sort of missions, scouting out enemies, engaging small groups of wild Pokémon. It was pretty easy, but there were groups that were more organized, more controlled… I had to hide from these, they were so disciplined. In retrospect, I suppose these little units were instructed by the Resistance on how to be a military presence, but at the time I believed them to be merely unusually intelligent wild Pokémon. Anyway, I rose quickly through the ranks. I completed enough missions and defeated enough enemies that I was considered the best of the best. I was placed in a special, small barracks outside the walled city. These barracks were rather symbolic, signifying a squad entirely comprised of the elite of the Marines. We were supposed to be the first defense of the city in case of attack or something. I forget the reasoning behind it.

At any rate, it was to these elite barracks that Murray and I walked to. We entered through the south gate of Icirrus after Murray and Audrey flashed their IDs; security had gotten tighter since last I had been there. The city had changed, too. Tall buildings pierced the heavens for the residents to work, small stores scattered themselves through neatly-ordered streets, people scurried with things to do in one part. This seemed to be more of a business district though; in another part of Icirrus there were all sorts of bars, pubs, restaurants, a park, and other places to amuse oneself. Icirrus always prided itself on combining business, play, military, and culture, and it seemed like that had not changed. There was business in one place, fun in another, the military dominated a different part, and the clock tower held pride of place in the center of the city. A marvel, that was; a massive clock all in black, gilded with gold, with a stark white face on all four sides. It chimed every hour, on the hour, and always kept perfect time. There was a little ledge below the face with lots of Houndoom, Luxray, Arcanine, and Stoutland facing outward. The tower was supposed to be honoring the memories of the Pokémon who lost their lives defending the city from attack and whatnot. The dog Pokémon were supposed to be symbolic of the soldiers' doglike devotion to their cause.

I looked up at it when we passed the gates. It was just as majestic as I remembered, the setting sun reflecting majestically off the polished black surface. I felt a little awed, as I always do when I look at it. I was brought back to reality by Murray's calls of goodbye to Audrey. Apparently she worked as a medic in the Nurses' Corps, and she needed to get back to her barracks. It was just me and Murray, and Murray did most of the talking. His initial nervousness had passed on the train ride to Icirrus, and he bubbled on and on about the gossip and developments in the town. I tuned him out for the most part, I'm ashamed to say, but I was a little busy taking in the sights. We got through the city rather quickly, riding the tides of people returning home from work, and easily passed through the north gate. They never stopped the people going out; it was the ones going in you needed to watch.

My old barracks were located just past a few tall hills. We climbed them in silence with the sun glowing gold in the corner of our eyes. I was looking forward to seeing my old stomping grounds again, and I took a few deep breaths for the first sight of—

The smoldering wreck of a building. I felt my jaw sag. This was not the proud barracks of the Marines; this was not the home I used to know. It was a smoking pile of rubble, completely destroyed. I said nothing. There were no words to say.

Murray seemed just as stunned as I was. "My Arceus… Watson, this—this was not the way I left the barracks. What in the name of…" He trailed off.

We stood there for a few seconds, staring. Murray shook himself. "No. I cannot accept this—Soldier!" Murray turned and barked with uncharacteristic force at a passing Sewaddle. The Sewaddle snapped to attention as best a Sewaddle could. Murray advanced on him, black eyes glowing. "Soldier, what happened here?"

"I'm not sure, sir," the Sewaddle responded. "Towards noon, an explosion rocked the city. Command assessed damage to the city, found there was none, and sent a few teams to these barracks to check. We found them as you see them, sir. No casualties have been found yet."

Murray nodded absently, his bark dissipated. "Thank you, soldier. You may go."

The Sewaddle departed, and Murray and I were left staring at the rubble. I still couldn't say anything. The building used to be my home. It had housed the best Marines in the military. It was a symbol of Icirrus, dammit, and now it was gone—

A plaintive cry rose from the remains. I blinked in shock and rushed to the edge of the ruin.

"Hello?" I shouted at the rubble.

"Help me—" A weak cry responded from somewhere in the midst of the debris.

Murray raised his tail and lifted the larger rocks with Earth Power. I Revenged the smaller ones into dust, concentrating my pain and confusion into blows. Eventually, I uncovered a red tentacle. I tossed some more rocks aside and lifted out the prostrate form of the Octillery, Captain Reelock. His eyes were wandering in opposite directions, but he attempted a feeble salute. "Captain Watson. Good to see you again." His voice was pathetically weak. "Please—figure this thing out, would you?"

I nodded and clasped one of his tentacles. "It's ok, Reelock, it's ok. We'll have time to catch up later, once you're on the mend and back to flooding the barracks."

He laughed hoarsely, and it turned into a hacking cough. A little blood spurted out of his mouth. "Yeah, that was some good times. Listen doc, I'm not sure what happened here, but—" he grabbed at my paw with sudden strength— " I have suspicions, sir. I wrote it all down in my diary. It's in there somewhere…" He gestured to the rubble.

I turned to Murray. "Get a doctor, fast." He toddled off quite quickly for a Palpitoad. I turned back to Reelock. "What happened to the rest of the unit? Are they down there too? Stay with me, Reelock."

He tried to say something, but it came out weak and garbled. His eyes closed, and he went limp in my arms. I checked him; he was still alive, but his pulse was weak.

Murray reappeared with a troop of medics in tow. They surrounded Reelock and lifted him off to the hospital, with a hurried prediction that he might be unconscious for a few days. Murray and I were left standing amongst the fallen stones. We watched the remains of the barracks earnestly, as though waiting for it to reassemble and pour forth its contents of old friends, to tell us the reason of its destruction…

Murray broke the silence. "Did Captain Reelock say what happened, Captain?"

I shook my head and forced an end to my daydreams. "No, he didn't," I replied. "He did say he put his suspicions in a diary. It's buried somewhere in here. We have digging to do, Murray."

I'll spare you the details. After some excavating, we had unearthed an astonishing amount of worthless items—toilet paper, handkerchiefs, that sort of thing—that had belonged to the 'Mon who used to be in the barracks. Nothing really sentimental, luckily, or I might've broken down in memory of its owner. Eventually, we came across a battered book of smallish size with the warning "Property of Larry Reelock. Trespassers will be court-martialed" written across the front. We sat down on convenient lumps of concrete and I opened the book.

_April 1 _(it ran)_: I've decided to start a journal to keep track of my life. Things get hectic sometimes, and when I get old and can't remember anything, this will be my reminder. I went on patrol today with a few of the 'Mon. Just a little sweep of the nearby area, nothing special. They were rather grumpy, the men were. From what I heard, Command's cut down on some of the activities they enjoy. Visiting relatives was one of them, I think; recreational time, too, and the yearly Icirrus Ball was cancelled. I suppose the ball doesn't help much with defending the city, but most of the 'Mon had dates already and were looking forward to seeing them. I'm sort of worried about morale, diary._

I skipped ahead. Most of the entries were stuff like "went on patrol today" or "life is hard" sort of thing. "The disappearances started… what, two nights ago? Three?" I asked Murray.

"Two, sir."

I gave him a look. "Listen, Murray, you don't have to call me 'sir' anymore. I'm not your commanding officer anymore. We're just friends now. 'Watson' is fine."

He nodded. "Yes, Watson, sir. It doesn't feel right without the 'sir'," he sighed. I turned back to the book.

_May 27: Strange stuff, diary. Jensen disappeared during the night last night. Done a bunk, I suppose, but he doesn't seem the type to just desert. Ah well. I'm sure the MPs will find him soon enough with some girlfriend. That's more like Jensen._

_May 28: Things are definitely getting odd here. I was on watch last night, manning the door. Felton and Dacks walked up and asked for a little time for a walk to clear their heads. I saw them engaged in an argument with some of the others on some matter or another. Seemed complicated, so I gave permission. They never came back. A little while after they left, I heard something that could have been a sneeze or, more likely, a stifled cry. I ignored it, though, and after half an hour, I went out to look for them with some of the squad. We never found them, diary. I'm worried._

_May 28 (again): Murray went off on leave this morning. He said he would go get old Captain Watson out from his retirement and see if he could do anything to help. I'm perfectly willing to have some more assistance, especially from him. Watson's a great Marine and a fantastic leader; he'll know what to do. All right, then. It's around noontime, diary, and I'm about to give the 'Mon a chance to have lunch. At the moment I have them all together in one room; nobody leaves without everyone else. I refuse to lose another of them, diary. It's a pretty good pla_

The writing cut off here. It picked up again the next line down, written in much shakier and messier handwriting:

_Arceus I can't believe the hounds_

The entry finishes, and the rest of the pages are blank. I read the last line, sat back, and stared at the sky.

"What do you think, sir?" Murray asked. He'd been reading over my shoulder and seemed rather shocked by the abrupt end. I sympathized.

"Well, Murray," I began, and stopped. I thought it over. "It sounds like the disappearances of the Marines is somehow tied to these 'hounds' mentioned in the diary. But I don't know what these hounds are. Is it an acronym for something? Are they dog Pokémon? Is it a literary reference? I just don't know…"

Murray considered the options I put forth. "Seems like the literal translation's the most likely, sir."

I nodded. "Yes, I agree. Reelock wasn't much of a literary buff, at least when I knew him. I've never heard of a HOUNDS acronym, so I suppose it must be literal."

"It could easily have been the rebels, Watson sir. A force of all dog Pokémon comes down from the moors, picks off the men one at a time, and when they stop coming out, they attack the barracks and overwhelm the Marines. Sounds likely to me, sir."

I pondered this and shook my head. "It doesn't to me," I said. I scratched my forehead and turned to Murray. "Murray, think. To be effective, a squad needs variation. Variation in type, yes, but you need Pokémon on the ground, in the air, under the ground sometimes, and being able to cross water. A team of dog Pokémon just wouldn't make sense. The rebels aren't nearly that stupid." My mind flashed to the superintelligent Mycroft and his genius partner Alfred. I had briefly considered telling the authorities about the Diogenes Club and its enigmatic founder, but I'd dismissed the thought almost immediately. The government no longer struck me as trustworthy at all, and Mycroft's cause was becoming far more reasonable when looked at it from an unbiased perspective. I was staying on this case for my comrades, for Murray. I would solve it on my own, and I would return home to 221B Baker Street. The government's problems no longer interested me.

We sat a little while longer and watched the sun disappear below the treeline. The massive clock chimed 6, and I looked at it idly. It towered over the tall buildings in the business part of Icirrus, visible from anywhere within a few miles, I should say. The face shone gold in the setting sun. The hands glowed brightly, and the dog statues around the cleft seemed almost alive…

I sat up. "Murray," I hissed.

"Mmm?" Murray looked up from his thoughts.

"Murray, you were spot-on about that dog Pokémon team. The only time a hound Pokémon team would be useful would be if it was camouflage, if what the team was doing necessitated being dogs," I spoke fast, like Holmes would.

Murray seemed confused. "Yes, I suppose so… But why…" He followed my gaze and his eyes widened. "Ah. Captain Watson! The statues!" he exclaimed.

I nodded as the weight of understanding dropped on us both. "Yes, Murray. When Reelock mentioned the hounds, he must've been referencing the dogs atop the clock tower." I pointed dramatically at the statues. Was this how Holmes felt when he solved cases? "The rebels must've slipped by the Icirrus defenses, one by one, and climbed their way up onto the cleft below the clock face. There, they would stand very still with the rest of the dog statues and wait. Every day, one more statue would join the rest, and no one would be the wiser. Meanwhile, the main body of the insurrectionists attacks the barracks, hoping to weaken the city's defenses and lower morale in the city in preparation for an attack." I felt very, very pleased with myself, but something in me was disappointed. After all, I had just told myself I would stay out of the wars between the Empire and its unruly subjects.

Murray's eyes were wide. "It all makes, sense, Captain Watson! Come on, let's alert the city—"

"No." I shook my head. Murray looked at me, confused. "No, I'm sorry. I'm not going to tell the city. It's—It's complicated. I can't explain it too well."

"But we can." A familiar voice floated up from behind us.

I spun. Sherlock Holmes leaned against a tree, tapping a hand against the bark, and smiling a little. Audrey stood quietly next to him, and she ran up and hugged Murray.

I stared. "Holmes!"

"In the flesh." He walked up to me.

"How—but—How long were you two there?" I stammered.

He shrugged. "I heard your discussion about the Octillery's little scene; I heard your deductions, Watson. Let me tell you, I'm impressed. You drew some very intelligent conclusions, and I'm very happy for you." He stuck out a hand.

I was even more taken aback. "You—you are?"

Holmes nodded again. "Yes. When you left, I did a bit of soul-searching. I decided that my self-glorifying remarks, though well-deserved, must have come across as rather rude. I've never given you or your abilities enough credit, and I apologize for that. That said, I'm sorry to dampen your parade, but some of your deductions are not correct. Just some," he hastened to add.

I was still surprised at the complimentary Holmes who stood before me. I felt an overwhelming urge to ask him who he was and what he'd done with the real Sherlock Holmes, but I suppressed it. He continued, "After searching my innermost being, I came to Icirrus to try and apologize to you. I found this young lady here taking a walk in front of the south gate. Would you like to take it from here, miss?" Holmes gave a little bow to Audrey.

She nodded. "Yes, I would. Toadie, after you and Dr. Watson went off to visit your barracks, I checked in at my own. I wasn't there very long before a badly wounded Octillery was brought in to the hospital. I worked on him myself, and I patched him up as best I could. He was still unconscious when I finished, but he muttered in his sleep: 'Watson', I heard, and 'diary'; but frequently he brought up words like 'hounds', 'traitors', and 'hounds'. I exited the city through the south gate to gather some flowers for you, Toadie, and there I met Mt. Holmes. We chatted a little, and he asked about Dr. Watson. I mentioned the Octillery's mutterings and we went off to find you two."

I frowned. "But this is deuced odd. Why would Reelock be talking about traitors and such? Surely we don't have a spy in Icirrus… Is that how the dog Pokémon got past our gates?"

Holmes shook his head. "Perhaps there are spies, Watson—I did see one or two of them move a little while we were walking though the city—but there is no way Reelock would've known about those traitors. I don't think anyone knew about the infiltrators on the clock tower. The 'hound' Reelock refers to is, I believe, used as a derogatory term. Look it up, Watson. A hound is a dog, of course, but 'hound' is also a word used to describe a dishonest or treacherous person. May I borrow the diary?"

He opened to the first page and began reading. I watched him for a while, antsy for him to continue his deductions, but he just read. I cleared my throat eventually. "Er—Holmes, the hound entry is later on," I interjected.

Holmes didn't look up. "Yes, but I believe the important entry is this one here. See how Reelock mentions the harsh conditions, the low morale of the Marines in Icirrus, the feeling of malcontent? The other entries also have those references; morale never came back, Watson." He looked up at me. "If Reelock knew of the wild Pokémon or rebels or whoever they are infiltrating Icirrus and putting his city at risk, he could have told you. He could have used the strength he had to actually inform you of the dangers, rather than putting it all into a rather melodramatic hunt for a diary. No, I think that he didn't feel comfortable physically telling you the cause of the destruction of the barracks. It was something that distressed him, perhaps, something that reflected poorly on him and the government he fights for. He couldn't tell it to a Pokémon he respected like you. Put it all together, Watson. The soldiers' malcontent, the use of 'hounds' to denote baseness or treachery, Reelock's unwillingness to talk about it. You have to be able to tie it all together."

I saw the light. "Murray, the barracks were not destroyed by the enemy," I said quietly. "They were destroyed by the men in the barracks."

Murray's eyes were wide with horror, and he took a step back. "No."

"Jensen, Felton, and Dacks weren't abducted. They left of their own accord, disgusted and angry with the harsh treatment at the hands of their government."

Murray took another step back. "No."

I continued my thoughts. "I don't think the 'Mon ever intended to hurt anyone or anything. They were just going to leave, one by one, to make it seem like the enemy picked them off. When Reelock put them all in one room for their protection—or so he thought—he unwittingly completely hindered their escapes. Perhaps a few of the men tried to sneak away, Reelock caught them, and the entire squad was forced to neutralize him. After Reelock was knocked out, the squad seized the chance of escape, gathered their important belongings, and left. That's why we only found throwaway items buried in the debris; anything of importance was taken. They probably destroyed the barracks as an afterthought, to make it seem more like a rebel attack."

Holmes nodded. "Well reasoned, Watson," he murmured. To Murray, he said, "I think the rebels would've destroyed the barracks anyway. Demoralization before the infiltrators attack Icirrus, or something."

Murray sat down heavily. "My Arceus… I never knew! They could have told me about their plans. They could've told me…"

Audrey, the picture of serenity, seated herself beside him and wrapped an arm around Murray's shoulders. "It's okay, Toadie," she whispered. "We can go, too. I haven't been too pleased with the military myself, since they cancelled the Ball. But we can go join the Resistance, or something. Their beliefs seem pretty sound, and I hear they get vacation days… Let's just leave."

Murray lifted his head. He seemed conflicted, but he smiled a little at his girlfriend. "Sure, Audrey. If you want to go, we'll go."

They stood, and Murray looked at Holmes and me. "I need… I'm going to go say goodbye. This city has a lot of memories for me…"

He took Audrey's hand, and they walked down the hill to the city gates. Holmes and I followed, at a distance. We watched as Murray nodded to a young Rufflet, smiled to a poorly-dressed human couple, made a polite remark to a rich Mienshao, broke off from Audrey to have a gentle conversation with a rather silly-looking old man in a colorful shawl. I got the feeling he was gathering up a last impression of Icirrus and the Icirrans. He looked up at the stores, the tall buildings, the lampposts, and finally at the clock tower. He relinked with Audrey, and together they walked through the Icirrus North Gate and disappeared amidst the trees.

* * *

As it turns out, there actually were Pokémon infiltrating Icirrus and perching on top of the clock tower. According to the Castelia Gazette, they were spotted later that very evening and knocked out, captured and supposedly brought to trial. Holmes and I have a different opinion of their fate, of course.

**There we go. I love having Murray around. He's like Watson's Watson, right? Oh, and now that Holmes did some deep thinking about himself, he becomes less of a jerk. Thank goodness. I was getting tired of throwing in awkwardly-placed insults and compliments.**

**Listen, guys, I didn't do my usual proofreading on this one. You spot a mistake, you let me know, ok? I don't want to start losing readers because I'm using the wrong punctuation or something. God knows I have few enough readers as it is...**

**And this is big. I need feedback on this chapter more than ever. I was writing the story, and I changed some stuff around, and I'm not sure if Sherlock and Watson's collective wrapup thing actually makes sense. Just let me know if it does or not in a review or something, ok? It won't take too much of your time, and I adore reviews. I'll actually respond to them, if questions are asked.**

**Thanks, guys. You all rock.**

**-Wordsmith**


	5. Counterpoint

**Hello once again, ladies and gents. Sorry about not having updated last week; it was supposed to be a dramatic break thing. The plot starts to pick up, though not by much. If this story was a ride, it would be a (less childish)"It's a Small World" thing than a rollercoaster.**

**So we have some point of view changing around here. This isn't Watson narrating, so you know. It's not clear who is narrating, but you don't have to know. Narrator identity is unimportant. Plus it's shorter! Nice!**

**Have fun.**

Chapter 5: Counterpoint

"Counterpoint. In music, a method of composition in which the composer plays two distinctly different themes at the same time to produce a more musically complex melody."

The Sudowoodo nods approvingly. "Very good, Hilbert. You may sit down."

The young man gives a shy smile to his teacher and sits down. The girl next to him—presumably a friend—playfully shoves him and he laughs. The aged Sudowoodo walks back in front of her blackboard, picks up a small lump of chalk, and begins a lesson on music theory.

Let us leave the Sudowoodo to her teaching for the moment and take the time to examine her pupils. There are about forty of them crammed into the tiny little classroom, like sardines. There are many other sardine-classes in this dilapidated old building, all of varying ages, but this particular classroom is the one that interests us. The students here look to be around the age of thirteen. Their faces reflect different stages of boredom, and they seem far more interested in the notes being passed around and the graffiti on the desks than in the Sudowoodo's lesson. The young man called Hilbert is one of the more interested ones, though even he must snap himself awake from time to time.

Hilbert is the reason we are here, as a matter of fact. A quick glance up front tells us the Sudowoodo is still preoccupied with minor thirds and whatnot; we shall take the time to analyze the boy. His eyes are bespectacled, naïve, and seem capable of great thought, though at the moment they are glazing over. It is an honest face, to be sure, framed closely by a sheet of blond hair. A little spit of hair comes off the top. He is a reasonably handsome young man, and a few of his female classmates shoot him looks. Hilbert does not notice, however, and he leans over to his friend from earlier to make some comment.

His friend also pertains to us. Her face is bright, her eyes sparkling in a tanned face. Her smile is lively as her eyes, and it shines forth when Hilbert whispers to her. Her hair is an unusual shade of green, though whether it is dyed or a natural color is hard to tell. Her hands toy restlessly with the hat on her lap.

The Sudowoodo's lecture draws to a close, and she looks at the clock. She sighs; there are ten minutes left in the day. Pain comes to her eyes as she turns back to the class. "All right, class… Looks like we have some time left. We'll finish with the usual, I suppose. Can anyone tell me why Pokémon are superior to humans?" Every hand shoots up, so quickly it's unnatural. The Sudowoodo selects one. "Yes—Timothy? One reason, please?"

"Pokémon have abilities and powers that place them above humankind." The answer is emotionless and bored-sounding, like an answer given many times before.

The Sudowoodo nods and says, "Good, Timothy," but her eyes do not match her words. She takes another surreptitious look at the clock: eight minutes. She sighs again. "Another reason?" All the hands shoot up again. "Lassie?"

"Humans are cruel creatures on the inside, while Pokémon are kind and sincere." Lassie's voice is just as automatic as Timothy's.

Again, the Sudowoodo nods. "Yes." Another look at the clock brings out another sigh. She begins to speak again, though so softly she is forced to clear her throat. She stops, but a swift glance at the winking security camera in the back brings her to her senses. "And—and why are humans cruel?" Every hand stretches upward again, and she swallows. "Hilda?"

The girl next to Hilbert had raised her hand halfheartedly to all the questions, and seemed surprised to be called on. "Oh—uh, because—because—"

The room is filled with an embarrassed tenseness. Hilbert covers his hand with his mouth and turns away, but if we lean in close, we hear him muttering to his friend. Her eyes widen. "Oh, that's right. Humans enslaved the superior Pokémon for millennia. Haha, brain fart…"

The Sudowoodo gives her a genuine smile, and the class giggles at her. The bell rings, and the class stampedes out with a few quick "good-bye!"s said to the teacher. She slumps back in her chair, waits for the red light on the camera to go out, and grabs a bottle of DayQuilava from a drawer in the desk. But the perturbed Sudowoodo is not our concern, and we follow the children out the doors.

Outside, children mill about. Some kick a ball around, others start on their homework, but the majority starts walking home. Hilbert and Hilda are part of the majority, and we catch their conversation easily.

"—can't believe you forgot that, Hilda," Hilbert was saying. His eyebrows crease in worry.

Hilda laughs him off. "Oh, lighten up, Hilbert. We all forget stuff sometimes."

"Well, yeah, but we've known the whole mantra for ages! It's important to understand—"

"Understand what?" Hilda arches an eyebrow at her friend. "They're words, Hilbert. We've said them so many times, that's all they are."

Hilbert smiles and shakes his head. "Whatever."

They walk in silence for a while. Hilda purses her lips and starts whistling. It's a nice little tune, though nothing we've ever heard before. Hilbert seems to recognize it, however, and he joins in. They whistle together until Hilda runs out of breath, and they laugh.

They arrive at a little two-story building on the shabbier side of town. Hilbert waves. "See you later, Hilda?"

She waves back. "Of course. My homework isn't going to do itself, you know."

Hilda walks on down the street, and Hilbert goes up the small walk to his front door. He digs a key out of an ornamental rock next to the door and lets himself in. We follow him, of course.

Inside is a woman reading in a beat-up armchair. She is pushing sixty, with grey hair piled on her head and wrinkles crisscrossing her face. The woman isn't quite over the hill, however; closer inspection reveals a few stubborn streaks of purple in her hair, and her wrinkles disappear as Hilbert comes up the steps. She extends her arms for a hug, which Hilbert happily gives. "Hi, honey. How was school?"

Hilbert shrugged. "It was all right. I presented my project on human slaving techniques, and Mrs. Sudowoodo gave me an A. It's hard to get into, though."

She raises an eyebrow and hides a smile. "Oh?"

He plops down in the other armchair beside her. "Yeah… I mean, it just doesn't make sense. Pokémon are really powerful. If they were enslaved by us, why didn't they just break free?"

The woman smiles at her ward (for he is surely not her son). "I don't know, honey. Sounds like a bit of a discrepancy to me. But I'll go make some cookies or something for you and Hilda when she—" A knock on the door cuts her off. This is no ordinary knock, it is clear. This knock is cold, professional, impatient. This knock is not to be trifled with.

The woman seems to understand this. She looks up like a frightened rabbit, and her eyes dilate. She begins to shove Hilbert toward a closet. "Hilbert," she whispers urgently. "You will do exactly as I say. You will stay in this closet. You will be very quiet. No matter what you see, no matter what you hear, you must stay in this closet." More knocking, the knocks sounding less and less tolerant. The woman looks into Hilbert's eyes. "Do you understand?"

Hilbert seems terrified by the whole thing, but he nods shakily and allows himself to be shunted into the closet. We watch the old woman take a deep breath, fix her hair, and open the door. "May I help you?" she asks.

She is pushed aside, and a Bisharp and a Bouffalant enter the house. The Bisharp looks disdainfully over the shabby furniture, and a flush comes to the woman's face. She walks back over to them. "Excuse me, but you can't just come walking into a person's house like that. Don't you have any—"

"Shut up." The Bisharp is a female, based off the bored, impersonal voice.

The woman blinks in fury. "I'm sorry, did you just tell me—"

"She told you to shut up!" the Bouffalant roars. He takes a threatening step toward her.

The Bisharp extends an arm to hold her partner back. "I'll cut to the chase. We're with the government, and we've received reports that you are a Pokémon trainer."

The woman holds her ground and looks the Bisharp in the eye. "Such reports are false." Her voice is steady and cold as ice.

The Bisharp shrugs. "Such reports may or may not be unfounded. However, we know you used to be the renowned Professor Juniper, researching the origins of Pokémon."

The woman acknowledges this. "Yes, I was. I gave that up when N came along."

The Bouffalant stamps, and the wood floor splinters a little. "That's King N to you, you crone!"

The Bisharp waves him off. "Cool off, Chandler. That's not why we're here. We'd like the whereabouts of Mycroft, the leader of the Resistance."

"What Resistance?" Juniper's eyes are wide and innocent.

"We know you know, woman," the Bouffalant, Chandler, sneers. "Remember Bianca? Remember Cheren? They were friends of yours, right? Yeah, they used to be the Resistance leaders."

For the first time, the woman seems discomposed. "I—yes, they are friends of mine, I didn't know they were involved with any Resistance. Why are you using the past tense?"

Chandler shakes his afro. "They're dead. I killed them myself, as a matter of fact."

She is visibly shaken, and it takes a second or two to get her thoughts together. When she does, her eyes and voice are full of a poorly-masked hatred. "I have not spoken to them in years," she spits out. "May I ask why you murdered my friends? Or is that classified?"

"Don't get flippant with us, woman," the Bisharp sighs. "We just want to know what we came for. Where—"

"You'd like to know what you came for?" Juniper matches the Bisharp's tone mockingly. "Well, isn't that funny. I'd like to know what you came for, too." It is easy to picture the woman spitting flames like some righteous dragon; her words certainly sting like fire, but neither Pokémon flinches. "I'd like to know a lot of things, actually. What right do you have to murder my friends, barge into my house, ask me questions?" Juniper gets right in the Bisharp's face, throwing words of acid at her steel-bodied intruder.

The Bisharp does not back down, however; quite the opposite. As Juniper prepares to launch into a furious tirade, the Pokémon presses a bladed arm to her throat. "I'll ask you once, woman. Where is Mycroft?"

Juniper's intense rage is gone now, and she becomes just a frightened old woman once more. A few drops of red run down her throat. "I know nothing," she gasps. "Nothing."

The Bisharp removes her arm from the woman's neck. "You know nothing?" she asks calmly.

"Nothing," Juniper hastens to reply. She relaxes visably and probes the cut on her neck.

The Blade Pokémon sighs. "Then you are of no use to us. Chandler."

The Bouffalant nods and rushes forward, catching the shocked woman between his horns and carrying her across the room. Her scream is cut off as she is thrown through the wooden back wall, her body spread at unnatural angles. The gasp from the closet is drowned out by the crunch of bones and wood breaking.

The Bisharp peers through the newly made hole in the wall. "Chandler, you were just supposed to break a few bones. She might be dead." She sounds just as bored and unconcerned as ever. Her partner gives an uncaring shrug. "Oh, well," she sighs. "She was just an old human, anyway. No one will miss her." The duo walks down the stairs and through the front door, leaving it open.

The world is quiet for a few seconds, then the closet door flies open and a sobbing Hilbert runs through the hole in the wall. The woman is rather pale, but she seems peaceful and serene. Hilbert kneels at Juniper's side. "Mom—oh, Mom…" he weeps, but a weak hand stops his tears and a faint voice stems his words:

"Hilbert, I have raised and loved you like my own—" she coughs—"my own child. But I am not your real mother. That honor belonged to Bianca, the woman those Pokémon were talking about." One cough, two coughs. "She was a sweet and gentle lady, and the kindest woman I have ever known. The man named Cheren was your father. He was brave, stubborn, a champion to us all. If they are dead, the world has lost two wonderful people." More coughing, deeper and more drawn-out. "I must leave you, Hilbert. But you are not alone. Hilda is a great friend, and I know she will help you. Go get my bag…" She makes a weak gesture at the closet Hilbert had just vacated. He runs back inside and returns in a few moments with an old, sun-worn handbag.

"I have it, Mom. What do you need?" He kneels again at the woman's side, but the light has already left her eyes, and no amount of begging would induce it to come back.

* * *

The world is in a state of twilight, of uncertainty. The sun had set without its usual beauty, and the stars now peek out at the scene in the small back garden. The boy is still there, grieving by her body. He has sat there for an hour or so now, rubbing the woman's hand, talking to her still, but she never answers him. It does not matter, anyway; most of Hilbert's questions are rhetorical, addressed to the world at large: why did she leave me? Why would any Pokémon do such a thing? Many more besides…

His endless flow of questions is finally interrupted. Not by a voice, no, by a wistful, melancholy whistle. It is the same melody we heard earlier, but now it seems deep, resounding, swallowing all other sounds. The whistle does not sound like it comes from a young girl's lips, but rather from the lips of a veteran whistler, an orchestra of veteran whistlers! An orchestra of flutes, of wind, of echoes, of hope, of life, of anything and everything that whistles all mixed together, forming a melody of intense beauty—

And yet it is only a small whistle, from the lips of a little girl. Hilbert automatically readies himself to join in with his part of the melody, but he looks at the body and remembers himself. Only a tuneless wail slips out.

The house's front door opens wider. "Hilbert? You there?" The girl Hilda sticks her head through the gap. Her light green hair blends with the shadows, but her blue eyes seem to glow in the dark. "Hilbert? Oh—" Her eyes fix on the hole in the wall and the crouching figure of the boy. "Hilbert!" She runs up the stairs and is at the boy's side in a moment. "What… What happened?"

"Murder," Hilbert whispers. Hilbert's eyes flick from the white body on the dark ground to the white stars in the black night above, and come to rest on the gentle blue in Hilda's eyes. Perhaps the only color in his twilit world was too much for him; Hilbert breaks down and throws his arms around the girl.

Hilda hugs him back. She stares up at the night sky and comforts her friend, thinking. At last, she whispers, "I know someone who can help."

**And guess who that someone is. He's reasonably famous, does stuff with murders... No, it's not Lestrade. Nobody likes Lestrade.**

**And perhaps this chapter is a little overdramatic. Sorry, guys. I opened the floodgates on this one, and I can't say I'm unhappy with the results.**

**Hilbert and Hilda are recurring characters and have a pretty large impact on the plot. There will be more chapters with them involved, so no worries. And I don't usually ship people together, but I guess I accidentally did here with Cheren and Bianca. Sorry. Won't happen again.**

**School's starting for a lot of people, so just carry on as best you can. I'll be back next week, hopefully.**

**-Wordsmith**


	6. SoulSilver Blaze

**Hey guys. I'm really sorry about the late update. Things might be like this for a while; school's started, I have to keep up with homework, I have to webcam with my girl every night, I have to play music for a while every day, I have to work out every other day... Life is rough for a writer. But you knew that already.**

**Well, anyway. I have to apologize for the chapter titles, guys. As we go farther into the story, my chapters have less and less to do with the actual Sherlock Holmes story the title is derived from. This one's based off "Silver Blaze", about crime in the horseracing world. My chapter has nothing to do with horses.**

**Another apology for the murderers last chapter. Yes, I know, they're flat and emotionless, and I'm sorry. I can't give every freaking character a backstory. I need some that are there because they need to be there, some that perhaps represent the face of evil.**

**Perhaps.**

Chapter 6: SoulSilver Blaze

Holmes nodded. "Watson, I won't try to deny it. You did some good detective work back in Icirrus," he said.

We were in the flat again, musing over recent events. I acknowledged Holmes's comments with a modest wave.

"Of course," he continued, "you arrived at a completely erroneous conclusion, but still. Not bad, for a first-timer."

Backhanded compliment though it was, I enjoyed hearing something other than self-praise and insults coming from Holmes. I savored the moment while at lasted, and sighed. "Holmes, I'm confused."

I could see him visibly struggle to hold an insult in. "How so?" he choked.

"It's this desertion thing," I began. "Holmes, I always thought the military was fair and just. Though the government it serves is corrupt—as I've seen—I thought the Marines and all of them would maintain some level of decency. But—oh, I'm monologuing. It doesn't matter."

Holmes frowned. "No, it matters. I'm trying to be sensitive here."

I heaved another sigh to collect my thoughts. "It's just that the Marines treated their soldiers so badly… Why? What purpose does punishing their own'Mon accomplish? They abandoned their own nation, for goodness's sake." This last bit came out in a rush, but I felt better having it on the table.

Holmes nodded. "Well, Watson, you might have to start asking yourself some deep questions. Perhaps the military isn't deserving of the pedestal you put it on?"

I was saved from answering by a knock at the door. "Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson?" Mrs. Hudson called. "Ah—some friends to see you."

I glanced at Holmes in bewilderment. "How many mutual friends do we have?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Might be Brock or somebody. Send them in, Mrs. Hudson."

The door opened, and two dirty-looking human children stood on the landing. I was shocked. "Mrs. Hudson! Who are these hooligans?"

One of the children stepped into the doorway. It was a female child with a peppy sort of air about her, but her face was set in grim determination. "Please, sir. We need help, and we don't know where else to go—"

I stood firm. "The orphanage is that way," I stated (perhaps a trifle brutally), pointing.

Mrs. Hudson entered the fray, an indignant face poked around the doorframe. "You don't know these children? Why, they said they were friends of yours—"

The girl turned to Mrs. Hudson. "Well, not in so many words," she muttered. "And I didn't exactly say they knew us…"

I shook my head. "No. Absolutely not. Mrs. Hudson, please remove these children from the from the flat."

"I certainly shall, Dr. Watson. No child will lie to me and get away with it. Dear me, what the neighbors will think." She advanced menacingly, raising a rolling pin threateningly.

The girl stepped back, retreating from the rolling pin, but her silent companion moved into the light and cut the altercation short. "Mr. Holmes, my mother was murdered. You are my only chance for justice," he said calmly.

Mrs. Hudson and I stopped our shooings and stared mutely at Holmes. He seemed to be thinking, his hand on his jaw. At last, he spoke. "Let's hear it, then."

* * *

The hoodlums were seated in the armchairs by the fireplace, leaving Holmes and I to stand. Mrs. Hudson had returned to her cooking downstairs with dark threats involving rolling pins. The boy telling the story sat in Holmes's chair, eating some of the leftover pudding from a few nights ago. A good-looking chap, as far as humans went. Said his name was Hilbert or summat. He seemed to be suffering from shock: his eyes wouldn't focus sometimes; he had a little trouble with saying words. Perhaps a slight case of PTSD? Goodness knows I'd seen enough cases in the Moors, and my heart went out to the poor kid. His narrative dropped off suddenly mid-sentence.

"So your mother told you to hide in the closet. Then what?" Holmes asked. "Do you need a little time?" He seemed far gentler than usual, something that surprised me. I forgot he was capable of emotion or empathy sometimes.

Hilbert shook his head. "No, it's ok. M-Mom opened the door, and two Pokémon came in: a Bisharp and a Bouffalant. The Bisharp called Mom a Po-Pokémon Trainer, said she used to be a Professor, and asked for the whereabouts of M-Mycroft.. I didn't know if that was a place, or a person, or—" He cut off again.

Holmes and I exchanged a glance at Mycroft's name. "Person," I responded, "but just continue with your story for now, if you can."

Hilbert's voice became noticeably shakier. "Well, Mom didn't know anything, s-so the B-Bouffalant shoved her through the wall and left her to d-die. The P-Pokémon were heartless. They didn't even care—"

He broke off again and put a hand over his face. His friend, the girl, patted his arm gently. She looked up earnestly. "I found him standing over his mother, holding her handbag. He was in an awful state," she said.

"And you are…?" I prompted.

"Oh. I'm Hilda. Hilbert and I have been friends for ages now."

We stood by awkwardly as Hilbert pulled himself together. When he seemed better, I voiced a question that had been nagging me: "I'm sorry, but this sounds like more of a case for the police. You saw these Pokémon kill your mother, didn't you? That should be good enough for an investigation, at least."

Hilda shook her head. "You would think so, wouldn't you," she said bitterly. "You would think that an eyewitness murder would be at least looked into, but no. We went to the police station. Didn't even make it past the desk sergeant. I can't say I blame him; not many Pokémon trust kids looking like us." I shuffled my feet uncomfortably.

"What could we do for you, though?" I asked, trying to be gentle. "I mean, we're not the police. We have very little sway in legal circles. Or, at least I do. Holmes-?" Holmes shook his head. "Right. It's not like we can put the murderers on trial or anything."

Hilbert looked up. "What can you do?" His voice held a deep anger. "You could prove beyond all shadow of a doubt they were guilty. Make it so that the most biased court in the world wouldn't let them off. I want them to pay."

Holmes nodded slowly. "Right. Well. Melodramatic as that is, we can't just do that. I mean, a biased court would still let them off. But we'll see what we can do." I regarded Hilbert with a little terror. He seemed homicidal now. Creepy in a teenager. Holmes moved on briskly. "Can you take us to the scene of the crime?" He seemed happy to be on a case, grim as the case was. Hilbert finished the last of the pudding, Hilda helped him up, and we set off.

* * *

We arrived at Hilbert's house quite quickly. It was a pretty little two-story, all faded blue and flowers around the base. Hilbert didn't give us time to look at it detail; he averted his gaze, and passed through the door. I shrugged and followed Hilda and Holmes, pausing to get a sniff of a nearby flower. Honestly, a beautiful house like that? Nobody gets murdered in beautiful houses. It was so peaceful, so serene, I half expected it to have all been hallucination on the children's part.

I had to step over some broken floorboards to get inside the pitifully simple house. I let my gaze wander a little. A small stove sat in the corner, pots and pans arranged around it, and stairs went up on my left. A schoolbag sat haphazardly in an open closet, and there was a large hole in the back wall. That caught my attention pretty fast. Hilbert collapsed in a chair, his face ashen. Hilda made a little nod toward the hole with her head at us, then turned to pat Hilbert's back. We walked to the other side of the house—it took only a few strides, that's how small it was—and peered through the jagged splinters at a well-tended back garden. Flowers and berry trees blossomed prettily around some narrow dirt paths, and in the middle lay a body. I heard Holmes sigh beside me, and he clambered through the gap to stand by it. I followed.

She had been pretty, once; the face of a younger woman shone through if you stared for a while. A little blood around her lips, had probably been killed by blunt trauma. I bent down and took her pulse, and looked up at Holmes. He forestalled me: "I swear, Watson, if you're just going to tell me she's dead..."

I rolled my eyes. "I wasn't going to say that. She's dead of trauma, looks like. We have some damage to the back of the skull, heavy damage to the spine. Broken ribs, a broken elbow. Her chest seems to have collapsed and probably damaged the lungs; that's what caused her to cough up blood."

Holmes nodded, surprised. "Well, I'm glad you're saying something more than 'He's dead, Jim,'" he laughed.

I blinked. "I don't understand…" I said slowly.

He shook his head. "No, it's fine. Nevermind. I like what you're contributing. So, doctor, could a Bouffalant cause this sort of damage to a body?"

I considered. "Yes, it probably could. There's a slight puncture here in the abdomen, could be from a Bouffalant horn."

Holmes nodded, and I stood aside. He went to work with his usual fervor, examining every inch of the body, seeing only things Holmes could. I couldn't help but be impressed. He was so efficient when he was like this. It was his element, like a fish in water.

He stood. "Right," he said briskly. "A Bouffalant definitely charged her. There's hair on her shirt. I think the claims the murderers made were accurate, for the most part. See these calluses on her hand? There's faint hardening on the palm here, here, and on the fingers. Calluses are formed from the constant rubbing against a part of the skin, so whatever she used to do, she did it frequently. My guess is she threw some sort of ball repeatedly; the rubbings would match the calluses on the hand."

I frowned. "Could be from a Pokéball; they said she was a Pokémon Trainer."

Holmes nodded. "And she was, I think, but the calluses are faded now. I don't think she's thrown a Pokéball for a while."

I waited a beat. "Anything else?" I asked. Usually, Holmes came up with something astonishing.

"Yes, as a matter of fact." He savored the suspense. "She is not Hilbert's mother."

I raised my eyebrows. "Really? That's—that's a shocker. How do you know?"

"Well, it has to do with ear lobe shape and whatnot that I'm rather shaky on. But I'm pretty sure I'm right."

"Seems sketchy, Holmes."

He nodded. "Yes, yes, I plan on keeping my theory to myself. Also, she does have some sort of tie to the Resistance. I noticed a letter in her pocket from Mycroft."

"What does it say?" I asked quietly.

Holmes lowered his voice. "Mycroft's telling this woman—Professor Juniper, or so the name on the envelope says—about Cheren and Bianca's deaths, and his appointment as new leader of the Resistance. He also warns her to watch her back, that if 'they' found out about Cheren and Bianca, 'they' might also know about Juniper's connection to them. I don't want to show the kids this, though; I'd rather keep them out of this whole Resistance busi—"

"Mr. Holmes?" It was Hilda. Hilbert and she stood inside the house, looking at us through the hole in the wall. "Have you found anything?"

Holmes was at a loss for words. "Well, I—er, that is to say…" he muttered awkwardly.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, he has," I said, throwing myself valiantly into the conversation breach. "Hilbert, this woman was not your mother."

He waved this aside, to my surprise. "I knew that," he said in a haggard sort of voice. "She told me, before she—" He let the sentence end. He was determinedly not looking at the body; I was relieved to see he wasn't crying anymore, and his shock symptoms had abated somewhat. Humans were rather resilient emotionally, I remember thinking.

Holmes gathered his thoughts and frowned. "Before she what, died?" I winced. "She spoke to you? You never told us that. What else did she say?"

Before Hilbert could respond, the front door opened. The children froze, and Holmes and I dove through the hole in the wall to stand in front of them. Or at least, I stood in front of them. Holmes dove for some protective alcove near a phone.

A stream of chatter flooded into the still house. "—I always hate these sort of jobs. They're just so messy. I mean, why do we need to? We could totally send someone else to do the lifting. Isn't that what grunts are for? Do we still have grunts? I've always liked the grunts we keep around the place. It means I never have to do real work. I mean, this is work too, but this is fun work. And if work is fun, then is it really work?" All this floated into the house rather quickly, more of a rushing stream of talk than an actual conversation. The owner of the voice proved to be a female Eelektross, and she floated up the stairs, oblivious of our presence. "I never thought it was. But this is work. What we're doing now? Yeah. That's work. I've never liked work, because fun work isn't work, s o only the not-fun work is actually work. It's bothered—" She reached the top of the steps and saw us standing in front of the hole in the wall, shocked. She raised an eyebrow and cocked her head at us, then turned around. "Hey guys? Some losers found the body. You wanna come up real quick?'

A Bisharp and a Bouffalant appeared in the doorway and walked up the stairs. The Eelektross resumed her curious studying of us. "Who are you losers? Well, you're not all losers. Maybe the older one on the phone over there is more of a loser than the rest of you. He's less brave, that's for sure. No calling for help, sweetie," she chided Holmes, blasting the phone out of his hands with a burst of lightning. "The Samurott isn't so much of a loser. More of a winner, actually. Now that I think about it, he's pretty cute. You single?" She batted her eyelashes at me, but I averted eye contact. This was certainly unexpected.

Hilda rose to the occasion. "You killed Hilbert's mother, didn't you?" she demanded at the Bouffalant, who seemed rather nonchalant. I glanced at Hilbert, and saw his face covered in anger.

The Eelektross switched her attention from me to Hilda. "Who's Hilbert?"

"I am," Hilbert said through clenched teeth. "And let me tell you—"

"Oh, great," she groaned. "I hate knowing the names of my victims. It's unprofessional, you know. Sometimes it makes it harder to do the job. Names make connections that get in the way. Like once, we were assigned to take care of a human named Martha, and my aunt's name was Martha, and I almost didn't do the job. But anyway. If Hilbert's mother was that stuffy old bat who lived here then yes, we did. By 'we' I mean Chandy and Aggie. I wasn't put on that assignment."

The Bisharp seemed to wince a little. "Come on, Christie. It's Agatha. We've been over this. Aggie makes me sound like a farmhand."

Christie pouted. "Aw, but Agatha is so old school! You'll never get a date if you keep introducing yourself as Agatha. Now Aggie, on the other hand—"

Holmes cut through the dialogue like only Holmes could. "I'm sorry, but just who are you all?'

Chandler the Bouffalant snorted. "I'm sorry, but what why would we tell you? You'll just be eliminated, anyway." He shrugged massive shoulders at our blank looks.  
"We do jobs for the government, we all have licenses to kill. You're in the way of doing our job." He looked through the children and I into the back garden. I followed his glance.

"Oh. Was that all this woman was? A job?" I spat.

Agatha nodded. "Yes. So is her removal. So if you wouldn't mind—"

"There was a Serperior in a prison, died in a mysterious fire. Was he a job, too?" Holmes asked. He had an edge to his voice to match the steel on the Bisharp's arms.

The Eelektross nodded happily. "Yep. He was a good, clean one. That was Ray, though. He's not here right now. But he's a pretty slick operator. I'm always happy when a job goes cleanly. There's such a nice little zip to it all—"

"And Mycroft? The young human in the library?" Holmes growled. "Was he one of the more rocky jobs?"

The three Pokémon scowled suddenly, and the room got tenser. Chandler hawked and spat on the floor. "That was the only operation we ever bungled," he snarled. "We don't like to think about it."

Agatha stepped forward. "Do you know where Mycroft is? We can make things unpleasant for you if you don't cooperate."

They came closer, menacing us with threatening leers. Hilbert and Hilda were giving the glares right back, but I slowly put them behind me and drew my swords. Christie laughed. "Oh, come on. Whoever you are, I don't think you're good enough to take us on. We fight for a living, hot stuff. We'll annihilate you. Of course, you could ditch those losers and come be my boyfriend…" She winked.

Chandler stamped a hoof. "Ghetsis told us to get rid of everything in our way, which seems to include you. We'll have to drag along your bodies as well as the old woman's, but the police will end up being just as baffled as usual. Disappearance under mysterious circumstances, they'll call it."

"I wouldn't count on that, sir," a familiar official-sounding voice said.

Our aggressors whirled around. Chief Inspector Lestrade and ten of his men had entered the house quietly and heard the whole thing. It was a confession witnessed by eleven of Scotland Yard's finest and would provide an absolutely unimpeachable eyewitness account in a court of law. Holmes grinned. "Ah, Lestrade. As usual, you arrived just in time. Thank you, my friend." Lestrade seemed absolutely star-struck by the title.

I laughed and looked down at Hilbert. "Well, looks like you'll be getting your trial after all, young man," I chuckled. He gave a weak smile and turned away, talking with Hilda.

I waited with pleasure for the villains to make their generic "you-haven't-seen-the-last-of-me" comments. When Agatha opened her mouth, however, she said something less orthodox: "Sorry, but you'll still be just as baffled as usual."

"Possibly dead—" Christie chimed in.

"—But definitely baffled," the Bisharp continued. "Nobody catches the Elite Four."

My eyes met Holmes's, saw his lips mouth the word "Four?" A hideous realization swept over us both: there was one more on the team left unaccounted for, this Raymond the Eelektross described as being a "slick operator". Hilbert gave a shout behind me, I spun around and came face-to-face with a grinning Hydreigon. He stuck his head through the hole in the wall and opened his mouth. I just had time to draw a sword and shove the kids behind me before he started spewing flames into the room; I used Razor Shell and spun my sword in circles, blocking the oncoming fire. When it stopped, the house was on fire, there was a pile of ash where Professor Juniper's body used to be, and the three assassins in the house had disappeared. I looked around to check on everyone: Holmes had a small burn on his forearm, the Scotland Yardsmen were mostly unconscious, and Hilbert and Hilda were nowhere to be found.

**Ugh. It's tough to write dialogue for both Hilbert and Hilda. At first, I was going to have Hilbert be a shy sort of guy and Hilda be his driving force. That would've been cool later on, but it wouldn't make sense now. I mean, even the most introverted kid would get PO'd if his mother got heartlessly slain. As it is, I'm not sure what to do with Hilda... Oh wait. Haha. Idea. Nevermind.**

**I hope somebody noticed about the names of the killers. It was pretty obvious. Unless you don't read classic crime literature. It doesn't matter either way, actually.**

**Updates will be slow, guys. I'm sorry, but I got homework on my mind and my mind on my homework. **

**I love new reviews. So put a little time in that message baby! I love new reviews. So take a little break and review this!**

**Haha. "I Love Rock & Roll" reference. Come on, guys. Review just for that.**

**See you... sometime. I wish I could say next week...**

**-Wordsmith**


	7. Apologies

**Hey guys. Long time no see.**

**Guys, I can't forgive myself. I haven't updated in forever... It's not my fault! Please, understand that. School's been god-awful, and I have to look at scholarships, and plan my future, and do so much else besides. Plus, I've been stuck on a plot problem for a while now, and I've only just resolved it. I hope to get back to Wednesday updates again, but it's hard to say. Don't hold your breath, though. It's hard to say when I'll have time to write.**

**On a lighter note, has anyone seen that first episode of "Elementary" on CBS? No? That's fine. They did a little gender-bending with Watson. He's now Joan Watson, a rather pretty ex-surgeon turned alcoholic-aide. She and one of Detective Gregson's underlings bring a little racial diversity to the show, which is nice; she also brings a strong female role, something you don't see enough of in modern shows. I like her character. I also like Holmes's deductions. Like, a lot. If you get the chance, check it out. The first episode's on the CBS website. They have a surprising amount depth to them, more than you get from "Sherlock," way more than you get from this fanfic. Outside of that, though... I'm not sure. There's something that just turns me off a little about it. I mean, it could be that Holmes himself is a recovering alcoholic/druggie, it could be that Gregson's harder to understand than Sylvester Stallone, it could be that they have Gregson- who shows up in about two stories- instead of Lestrade. It could be that Holmes had some sort of old romance thing. Idk. You guys should check it out, though, in the massive interim until my next update.**

**I love you guys. I'll do a lot of writing tonight, I promise.**

**-Wordsmith**


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